


Constellations series

by KalendraAshtar



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Fated Lovers, Fluff, alternative universe, ocasional angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6786862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalendraAshtar/pseuds/KalendraAshtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are some people truly meant to be together, unexplainably attracted to each other? In each small story, Jamie and Claire meet – in different places, times and circumstances – and fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Orion

**_Orion_ **

It was a special night in the beginning of May. The weather was still somewhat cold but pleasant enough to be out late at night, the smell of blossoming flowers saluting spring, making the night air even sweeter.

He would come to that place sometimes, when he needed to think and find soothing loneliness. When the noises and urgencies of everyday life seemed to overwhelm him, his ears buzzing, incapable of hearing the simple words of his own thoughts. Jamie loved it there – the hill spreading close to the city, the lights of Edinburgh far away and yet so clear he felt he would be able to grasp them if he reached with his open hand.

But above all he loved the way he could see the stars. Through the big window of his own apartment he would look at them, - sometimes for hours when sleep refused to come for him – but there were just too many electrical lights, damping the beauty of the celestial bodies. In that secluded place he always felt the closest to them.

That night a rare occurrence was supposed to take place, a meteor shower of great proportions which would fill the sky with shooting stars. He went about his work, teaching classes at the University, dreaming of the time he would lay in his favourite spot, losing himself in the vastness of the universe.

Jamie made the climb in a short time, as he was used to it and in good shape, a blanket tucked under his arm. But when he moved the tree branches out of his way, he realized there was already someone occupying his usual place.

It was a lass, he noticed quickly. She was laying down, her face pointed to the stars, a patterned quilt serving as a mattress, her arms and legs stretched. She must have heard him move, for she turned her head to him, her eyes piercing through him like an arrow.

“I’m sorry.” He babbled. “I thought I was alone.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She answered politely. Her voice was smooth and rich, her accent far away from his Scottish burr. English, most definitely.

“I come here often.” Jamie said, failing to understand why he felt the urge to explain himself. “And tonight, with the falling stars…ye ken…”

“Ah.” She sat up, her legs folded. He couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she seemed to be and how graceful her legs looked on her tight blue jeans. Jamie blushed, silently thanking the darkness for the protection of his indiscretions. “I come here a lot too. I like it here….so peaceful and quiet. I’m surprised we never met before.”

“Aye.” He looked to the starry sky with regret. “I’ll leave ye to it, then.”

“If you came to see the shower,” She added in a soft tone. “Why don’t you stay? There’s room for the both of us here, I daresay.”

He couldn’t really tell the colour of her eyes in the dark and at such a distance, but her brown hair was curling around her face, her soft lips forming a kind smile. Jamie gave a tentative step towards her.

“If ye really don’t mind, then.” He waited for her to shake her head and then proceeded to lay out his blanket at a respectable distance from her.

They were silent for a while, accustoming themselves with the presence of another human in that usually remote place, their slow breathes the only audible thing.

“I’m Claire.” She said eventually. He turned his head and saw that she was still staring at the sky, smiling.

“Jamie.”

“Nice to meet you, Jamie.” The way she said his name made his heart skip a beat. “So are you an astronomer?”

He snorted.

“Hardly.” His eyes were locked on her face, highlighted by the silvery light from the stars. _Whiskey_. Her eyes were the colour of aged whiskey. “If I was one, I expect I’d be somewhere with a telescope to watch this from a far more scientific and boring perspective.”

She laughed, a crystalline and warm sound that pierced through his bones, like the shock waves after the impact of an asteroid.

“I guess you’re right.” She impatiently brushed her curls away, which were falling on her eyes pulled by the soft night breeze. “So, you are like me. We just like looking at the stars.”

“When I was a bairn,” He listened to himself say, like he was out of his body. He seldom talked about his family, least of all with complete strangers. “My father used to show me this big book with all the constellations and told me old folk stories about them. Then we used to go outside our house, sometimes almost until dawn, and tried to tell their names and drew their shapes with the tip of our fingers.”

“That sounds lovely.” She seemed sincere, a tender smile on her lips. “Do you still remember them?”

“Some.” He squinted, trying to identify their familiar forms in the crowded sky. “That one is Sirius, the brightest star. There ye have Taurus, I always remember it because it’s the one of my sign. And over there is the constellation of Orion – I always loved that one.”

“When I was young I travelled a lot with my uncle for his work.” She said, rolling on her side to look at him while speaking, almost on the edge of her quilt. “We went to Japan and saw the Star Festival. They have this legend – that the Milky Way was created to separate two lovers, only allowing them to meet once a year.”

Jamie made a sympathetic noise with his throat.

“Tragic story, I reckon.” He tapped his fingers on his thigh. “But at least they have the one night. It’s more than many of us will ever get.”

“Yes.” She said softly. “Sometimes one night is enough to change your life.”

Jamie’s heart was beating faster, her words sounding meaningful to his eager ears. Talking to Claire seemed as effortless as to breathe the night’s cool air and every bit as necessary for him to be truly alive.

“Do ye…” He cleared his throat, sliding slightly to be closer to her. “Has yer life been changed by one night?”

She bit her bottom lip in a gesture that made Jamie’s mouth dry instantly.

“My parents died in a car accident when I was very young and that night everything changed. Then, there’s the night I got my acceptance letter to Medical School. And the night I discovered my fiancé in bed with another woman…” She sighed. “So, I guess you could say that. Several nights shaped the person that I am today.”

“I’m sorry.” He brushed his red hair, feeling terrible to bring such memories back to her. “I shouldna have asked.”

“No, that’s okay.” She smiled, even though there was some sadness in her eyes. “See, this place is really special to me. But… I don’t mind…sharing it. I thought I would – but I don’t. Not with you.”

They gazed in each other’s eyes, comfortably silent, until the sky above them seemed to burst with natural fireworks.

“Oh, it’s starting!” Claire exclaimed and they both looked up, where stars were beginning to fall, leaving trails of light in their wakes, like big tails of luminescent animals from exotic and distant places. “It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?”

Jamie looked at her, her eyes reflecting the millions of evanescent lights.

“Aye. It is.” He said, his voice suddenly husky.

“The thought that so many of those stars are already dead - and yet we can still see their light so many years after their deaths - It’s daunting.” She said, furrowing her brows.

“People can be like that.” He added softly. “Gone for so many years and yet...they leave a legacy that makes them live on. It makes me hopeful.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Jamie.” Claire whispered, making his belly blaze with warmth, like he had just swallowed a generous dram. “I’m glad I get to share this with someone like you.”

Through the next hour they talked, sharing stories and small details about their lives, their eyes as attracted to each other as to the phenomenon taking place above them. Eventually Claire was lying next to him, on his own blanket, their arms almost touching.

“Do ye think we should make a wish?” He asked, his fingers slightly brushing the back of her hand, his fingertips prickling with desire. “If one falling star can do the trick, ye’d think that our odds would be way better with this many stars.”

“Well,” She answered, her bare foot resting just near his shin. “I talk to them all the time when I come here. So far I had no luck – but that might actually be changing.”

His face grimaced in humour, making an incredulous noise with his tongue.

“Do you mean to tell me that the stars never talked to you? Never wished upon a star?” She asked, a shadow of laughter in her voice.

“Yes.” He breathed deeply, trying to gather his courage. Jamie tilted his head ever so slightly, so that his mouth was only inches away from Claire’s. “I wished so many things, _mo nighean donn_. I think they finally brought ye to me as an answer. They told me ye are the most beautiful thing to lay under them.”


	2. Sirius

**_Sirius_ **

It was not the eighteenth birthday she had anticipated.

Uncle Lamb had made a tradition between them of surprising her on her birthday throughout the years – from frog legs for breakfast, to drinks with an umbrella on the top of an ancient pyramid, to an unfortunate incident with a baby jaguar – her special day was bound to always be _extra special_. But this time his gift had been a quiet weekend in a lovely inn in the Highlands of Scotland, surrounded by pleasant people and furry cows peacefully munching green things. It seemed the greatest thrill she was bound to get would be a sudden gust of hail.

So when her uncle had claimed to be too tired to go gallivanting across the muddy moors that afternoon, she shrugged, wished him a refreshing nap and headed towards the Scottish wilderness.

It was quite stunning, she had to admit. Even though she was used to be surrounded by beauty since a young age - when her parents had suddenly passed away, leaving her to be brought up by her eccentric and reckless uncle – most of the times it was an architectural beauty, born by the hands and efforts of men. Scotland was charming in its own right, untouched and almost unmarked, an immutable force to be reckoned with. Everything seemed to have a spirit within, from _lochs_ to the ancient stones, which deserved to be revered.

She was climbing a steep hill, silently grateful to be wearing her most comfortable pair of trousers. Claire was very fond of them, even if some people still looked to a woman wearing them with reproach. Fortunately, her unconventional upbringing had salvaged her of the skirt dictatorship, and she was only glad to embrace the 30’s most _avant-garde_ fashion.  

The sun managed to shine through the clouds and a trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck. By the time she reached the top, Claire was panting hard from her exertions, but feeling happy and very much alive. She sat down and fished from her bag a bottle of ale, which she uncorked skilfully.

“Happy Birthday to me!” She toasted to the landscape, before taking a generous sip of the bitter and flavoured drink. The view from the top of the hill was glorious and she spent the next few minutes relishing in pleasant solitude.

She must have dozed off at some point from tiredness, surrounded by warmth of the glowing sun, for when she opened her eyes the sky was populated with angry and dark clouds, promising a storm to bless her birthday.

“Damn it!” She reprimanded herself and hurried to start to descend the hazardous path.

But her shoes must have slipped in the moist vegetation, for her right foot made a strange angle which made her cry in pain. Claire automatically sat down, cursing in a manner that would make good English girls gasp in horror. She took off her loafer and cradled her foot, a slight panic starting to take over, as she realized that not only was she hurt, but also that she had lost her references for the way back.

“Are ye hurt, lass? Ye must be, to be using such language.” Claire heard a voice talking behind her. She peeked above her shoulder, surprised to see a young man standing there.

He looked younger than her, even if he was already physically imposing. He was dressed in a pair of worn out grey trousers and a simple indigo cardigan that matched his blue eyes; the sober clothing contrasted vividly with his flaming red hair. His fingers were tapping on his thigh and he had an entertained smile on his lips.

 “I’m quite alright.” She answered irritated.

He snorted.

“Ye certainly dinna look like it, lass.” The young man retorted, glancing at her rebellious hair. “Ye look like a tousled astray sheep.”

“Are you comparing me with a sheep, _boy_?” She demanded, aggravated. He grinned, his white perfect teeth showing.

“I might be a lad, but at least I’ve learnt to comb my hair, lass.” His hand touched the beautiful mass of red hair on his head. “And I’m taller than ye, for all ye are certainly verra old and wise.”

“I’m eighteen!” She crossed her arms, puffing. He really was _big_ , even if his features still had some boyish softness about them. “ _And_ today is my birthday!”

“Ach, is it?” The Scottish boy moved swiftly and swept her in his arms without a betraying sound of effort, ignoring her feeble protests. “Congratulations to ye, then. Even if I don’t ken yer name yet. Tousled and ill-mannered are ye, Sassenach?”

“Put me down this instant you….you… _Scottish_ ….. _child_!” She blurted, feeling her face beaming with heat from her embarrassment.

He laughed, a deep and rich noise that made her bones rattle.

“Is that the best ye can do?” He made a fake look of sorrow. “To think that ye achieved the respectable age of eighteen and ken so little of things. I’m fourteen, but I can carry ye like ye were a porcelain doll.”

They stayed in silent for a moment, Claire still trying to figure out something clever and spirited to say that would give her the upper hand, desperately striving to overlook the nagging pain on her ankle.

“I’m Claire. Claire Beauchamp.” She said unwillingly.

“So ye _do_ have a name.” He smiled and she noticed the charming little pits on his cheeks as he did so. “I’m Jamie.”

“Nice to meet you.” Claire returned awkwardly. “I can walk, I’m sure…” She started to say in what she thought was an assertive tone, but he sighed.

“No, ye canna. Yer foot would swell like a pumpkin before ye managed two steps, I can see that. Besides, I can smell rain already. Soon enough we’ll both be soaked, if we stand here arguing this back and forth.”

“Alright.” She finally agreed, suspiciously looking at the sky. The wind was howling like a hungry wolf pack, bringing to her nostrils the fresh scent of menacing rain. “I’m a bit lost.” She admitted hesitantly. “Maybe you can help me find my way back.”

They were headed across the moor just after she gave him general indications about the inn, Claire riding piggyback on Jamie’s lean but strong back. She was silently appreciating the way the evanescent light brought his hair to life; copper, auburn and red shining like strange gemstones. He smelt of homely soap, fresh bread and wool.

Jamie was admirably strong for such a young age – probably used to hard work, she considered.

“Do you live nearby?” Claire asked, placing her hands around his chest to hold on to him.

“Aye.” He nodded. “My parents have a farm on the other side of the valley. I was just coming from a friend’s house when I met ye.”

“Is your friend a leprechaun by any chance?” She asked, noticing the absence of houses within sight.

He made a sound with his throat that she assumed was a demonstration of hilarity.

“I’m used to walk long distances by myself.” Jamie answered with some pride in his voice. “Not really a city lad.”

“I can see that.” She retorted, her eyebrows raised.

Suddenly, like a raging river forcing a dam, huge splatters of rain fell from the sky. Within moments everything was hidden from them by a curtain of heavenly water, cold and piercing.

“ _Iffrin_!” Jamie cursed above the powerful noise of the storm. He unloaded her from his back with care and urged her to stand against the trunk of a nearby tree, placing himself between her and the fury of the elements. Sheltering her with his body.

Claire was breathing fast, not from any effort, but from the immediate feel of Jamie’s hot skin in close contact with her drenched clothes.

She was not immune to men; had not been since a couple of years ago, when suddenly the muskiness of a man or a seductive smile were able to wake a hot feeling in her belly. Claire had even kissed some boys, mainly people she knew a long time, sons of other archaeologists that worked with her uncle.

But Jamie was different from them. He was wild, as Scotland was wild. He had been cruelly candid with her, not caring if she was impressed or not. There was something chivalrous and pure about him, a light that matched this magical and ancient place, an effortless grace.

He was a teenager though, yet a few years away from becoming a man, to really own his skin. To be able to feel her desire and do something about it. He probably still thought girls to be a riddle, something boring and unpleasant, that he dealt with only when forced to.

“Ye could be a fairy.” Jamie interrupted her train of thoughts. “Yer skin is so smooth and white.”

“Ah.” She blushed and avoided his gaze, so close to her. “The perks of a good moisturizer, I believe.”

“Nay.” He answered solemnly. “It’s ye. Ye’re like a black pearl coming from an oyster near the shore. So luminescent and yet…rarer than the white ones. More beautiful. Unique.”

“I doubt you’ve met that many girls.” She said mildly. “I’m quite ordinary.”

“Hmmm.” He made another sound with his throat. “I’ve seen enough to know that ye are not. The way ye answered me before, ye seemed like ye were about to bite me in the arse. Ye’re fearless, aren’t ye Sassenach?”

“Sometimes.” She couldn’t avoid a smile. “But I’m afraid of a lot of things.”

“Such as…?” He placed a hand on the trunk near her face, to steady himself against her.

“Well…things like…To be less than I could have been. I don’t want to be just somebody’s wife.”

“It would take a brave… _and daft_ …man to think that he could ever tame ye.” Jamie gave her a sweet smile. “Tousled sheep.”

“Very funny!” She pushed him, still smiling, relieved that his remark had broken what was rapidly becoming a very intimate moment. Maybe he was not so young, after all.

They talked a bit, Claire explaining how she had come to Scotland to celebrate her birthday with her uncle; Jamie talking about his siblings and his estate, Lallybroch. Claire realized that he was truly a good listener and a great story-teller.

By then he was shivering, as his clothes were completely soaked in his attempt to protect her. On an impulse, Claire reached for his hand, and held it between her own, rubbing his knuckles.

“Look.” He whispered and grabbed her by the waist, twisting the position of their bodies.

The rain was almost gone, down to a drizzle, and Scotland was smiling upon then in the form of a rainbow.

“Happy Birthday, Claire.” Jamie said, squeezing her hand. They stood there, their hearts beating as one, hands gripped together like castaways, enjoying the scenery.

Later, when the sun shone again in the sky, he carried her until they reached the clearing where the inn had been built.

“Here we are, lass.” Jamie waved his arm, like a magician presenting his best performance. “Safely returned to your quarters.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Jamie.” Claire answered, experimenting her foot on the ground.

“No need to thank me, lass. I should go now. But…” He hesitated. “I must give ye a small gift perhaps. To remember this day. To remember…me.” His eyes bore into hers.

“I will Jamie. I’ll remember you.” She said honestly, the fingers of her right hand lacing through his, their palms touching.

“Well,” He whispered, catching a lock of her still-wet hair on his hand. “Just in case then.”  

Jamie leaned towards her, his breath hot against her skin – he moved slowly, his mouth seeking hers like two planets gravitating around each other, irrevocably drawn by unseeing forces. When their lips were about to touch, he turned his face and kissed her cheek, near the corner of her mouth.

“That was…very proper, was it not?” She tried to hide an amused smile, a powerful shiver tingling on her skin where his mouth had just touched.

“Someday, when I’m older, I’ll find ye again Sassenach.” Jamie smiled back with mischief. “And I’ll kiss ye then, in a way _not proper_ at all.” His eyes shone with sincerity, limpid as the ocean, making her heart flutter. “I think I’ll marry ye, Claire Beauchamp.”

And he turned his back then, walking away with grace, heedless of the storm he had awakened in her heart, the tall shadow the sun casted behind him a promise of the man he would become.


	3. Crux

**_Crux_ **

The wind was howling outside, cautioning everyone to stay indoors that night, making the glass windows tremble on their frames.

Her ankles were swollen after another day spent on her patient’s bedsides; the small of her back ached; her eyelids were heavy and tender, wishfully remembering her of the need to rest. But she wasn’t ready yet – she still had to go and see him before she could surrender herself to the arms of Morpheus.

Silent as a ghost Claire crossed the hall where beds had been gathered to improvise an infirmary, finding a moment to look up and admire, not for the first time, the intricate paintings on the ceiling. The house had been a great manor, the ancient home of an important and wealthy family, with more names than she had years of life. But when the Great War came, the waves of sorrow and disgrace washing the shores of England’s countryside, the widowed and childless Lady had given her estate to serve as a Convalescent Hospital.

And so it happened that Corporal Andrews had gotten the boil in his buttock lanceted, while laying on a bed under the crest of one of Britain’s finest families; and General Byron drank his daily dose of cod’s oil on a porcelain cup.

Corporal Dawson was moving restless in his sleep, trashing about, and Claire hurried to soothe him before he injured himself even further –  his right leg had been amputated in a field hospital on the Somme before being sent home to convalesce, but his stump had stubbornly refused to heal entirely.

Covering a soldier with a blanket here and greeting a fellow sleepy nurse there, she finally arrived to the small study where his bed had been placed to further privacy and peacefulness.

“Hello, Captain Fraser.” She acknowledged him, sitting on the chair by his bed as she had done so many times in the past three months. “I have been thinking of what to say to you tonight. I’m fairly sure I’ll be out of stories to tell you soon. So maybe we’ll give this one another go, shall we?”

_“She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet.”_ The clock on the hall struck eleven times, announcing the late hour, as Claire closed her favourite Jane Austen book, an heirloom of her mother.

She looked at him, his eyes firmly closed. Closed, as they had been for the past three months.

It had been a sunny day, as she recalled it – the rest of the details were lost in a haze of fatigue and endless duties. An ordinary day, in the strange world they had built during the World War. Except Captain James Fraser had been brought in that day – and _he_ had _nothing ordinary_ about him.

He was brave, she was sure. Had to be, as he had been caught in an explosion while trying to save one man in his company that no one seemed to like very much. The wounds in his body, while quite substantial, had healed with the passing days in the field hospital. But his mind had not.

James Fraser had been in a coma since the day of the explosion, his mind escaped from his body, wandering somewhere unachievable. Nothing the doctors had tried had succeeded in bringing him back. Hope lost, they had sent him to waste away in Britain’s soil. To her.

There was just something about him that discomposed her. He was beautiful of course – his nose just long enough, his cheekbones sharp and royal, long lashes covering his closed eyes, the unique hair that contrasted deeply with the whiteness of the bedclothes – but that was just part of it. She longed to hear him talk, to know if his voice was as deep as she imagined. His lips, fleshy and well-drawn, were meant to be used in a punishing smile. And his eyes – what colour was hidden there?

She knew very little about him, only the small details that had accompanied his arrival. A Scottish war hero. Best known as Jamie. No family known. An officer well loved and respected by his man, a true leader. A man without a past and likely no future.

It seemed utterly unfair that a man so young and fearless, with a heart that kept beating with the might of thunder, was destined to lay in a bed for the rest of his days. Alone somewhere in the dark of his own mind, with no one to keep him company. He was here, but she wouldn’t get to know him.

Was he in pain? Was he asleep, immersed in memories of better days? Could he hear her and know that someone cared for him?

And so it became a ritual. At first it was just part of her tasks – come to him; access his vitals; wash his beautifully made body, getting thinner and weaker everyday he was unable to move; feed him liquids through the feeding tube in his nose, a fascinating even if somewhat crude fabrication of one of the army surgeons – but soon enough Claire would find herself sitting beside him, gazing at him with longing. Talking to him. Reading to him from her scarce collection of books.

She was unable to sleep without coming to say goodnight to him. She would tell him stories of the other patients in her ward, people whose lives she had touched briefly in those days, their victories and defeats which felt like her own. Claire would share with him the things that were precious to her, the people of her past she had cherished. And above all else she would wish for him to wake up and answer her, challenging him to claim back the life that was his.

Each night she held his hand at the end and would whisper in his ear “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jamie.”

****

Claire couldn’t remember the last time she had had a day off, so she thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to go to the village nearby and acquire some sewing thread, to mend her battered clothes, and maybe even a new book that she could share with Jamie.

As she crossed the door of her quarters, still fumbling after changing to her uniform, she watched as Nurse Neal ran down the hall, arms waving like a mad octopus.

“Nurse Beauchamp! Claire!” She suddenly halted, almost bumping against a dazed Claire.

“What is it Nurse Neal? Is something on fire?” She smiled, eyebrow raised in question.

“He is asking for you!” The blonde woman blurted. “You have to come!”

“Who is?” Claire asked, confused. “Is it General Myers again? I told him yesterday that he can cut his own toe nails. I’m a nurse, not his damned wife!”

“Captain Fraser.” The woman told her, brushing her arm with her hand. “He is awake and asking for you.”

“Jamie…?” Claire whispered, her body suddenly struck by a heat wave, her throat tight with undesired tears. “Are you sure?” Nurse Neal nodded, a big smile on her lips. Claire started in the direction of the study.

She stopped at the door, furiously trying to gather her rampant emotions, breathing deeply and slowly to calm herself. Claire gave a quick look to the mirror on the corner and saw her reflection in her blue uniform, cheeks blushed and eyes glowing.

Slowly she pushed the door open.

_Blue_. His eyes were the most remarkable blue she had ever seen.

He was sitting in bed, looking outside through the big window, the most curious expression on his features. Sorrow? Longing? Cautious happiness? She couldn’t say.

When he felt her enter, he turned his head and looked straight at her.

 “Captain Fraser, I’m…” She began.

“Nurse Beauchamp.” He gave her an intense look. “I know who ye are. I could recognize yer voice in a room full of people and an orchestra playing.”

“You could?” Claire asked, amazed.

“Oh, aye.” He smiled, a gesture that suited him. “When the only thing ye hear for such a long time is this voice, ye get to know it verra well.”

Claire bushed. She squeezed a fold of her apron between her fingers to regain some composure.

“I must make sure everything is alright with you, Captain. You sustained very serious injuries and your state has been…delicate.”

“Of course.” And so Jamie suffered through her invasive questions, assessments and general prodding with an amused smile on his lips.

“Well, everything seems quite alright. But you are very weak, Captain. Now that you’ll be able to eat properly, you should regain your strength soon enough.”

“I thank ye, Nurse Beauchamp.” He bowed his head, gravely.

“I only did…”

“Not only for this.” Jamie interrupted, his hand touching hers. “But for everything.”

His voice was husky and Claire stopped, their eyes locked.

“Nurse…Claire….ye kept me here. When I was…asleep….Ye were the only thing that existed for me. I have heard people talk about this place they saw close to death. The white light, the path formed in front of them.” He gripped the sheets in his hand. “But for me there was nothing. I saw nothing. Only darkness.”

“Jamie…Captain Fraser…” She tried to stop him, but he went on.

“But there was this sound sometimes.” He proceeded. “A low noise, like someone humming a song. Like the voices of people I ken and love…calling and talking to me. And I felt that I might forget what living was like, find peace and comfort in that sound. I wanted sae badly to let go of everything, this useless body, and just flow with it.”

“Why didn’t you?” She asked softly.

“Because of ye.” He moved his shoulders in discomfort, like his clothes were too tight. “Ye would come and talk to me. I remember everything ye ever said to me, Claire. Every story, every book, every person ye loved and lost. I dinna wish to pain ye any further by dying, as ye seemed to care sae much.” He avoided her gaze. “And when the will to be gone was so strong that my heart felt ripped apart, I thought about how much I wanted to see ye. Ye gave me something worth living for.”

“Captain Fraser, those are bold words.” She tried to persuade him. “I’m sure you are a gentleman and very grateful but you don’t know me, not really. You shouldn’t talk like this to a complete stranger.”

“Claire,” He said impatiently. “Are ye trying to convince _me_ or yerself? I ken what I feel well enough.” Jamie touched her face with the tip of his fingers, so cold and long, making her shiver.

“How can you…admire me…so much?” She asked astonished.

“ _For the liveliness of your mind, I did_.” He smiled, a mixture of mischief and tenderness. “I knew ye before I ever saw ye, _mo nighean donn_. And now that I do…It dinna change at all. Only grew, for everything about ye is beautiful. Aye?”

“Jamie.” She whispered. “I’m so glad of you. I am. But we mustn’t. You are my patient and an officer. I’m a nurse. This is highly unsuitable.”

“Aye.” He sighed, defeated, his hand dropping on the bed.

“But maybe…” She licked her lips and smiled, joyous and tentative. “When everything ends and I’m no longer Nurse Beauchamp and you’re no longer Captain Fraser. When we go back to being just Jamie and Claire….maybe then, you’d consider taking me to dinner?”

“Aye. I can wait.” Their eyes met again and Claire marvelled everytime she saw them open. Seeing her. Reflecting her. “For ye, I’d wait my entire life.”


	4. The Second Sighting of Sirius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because sometimes in life there are two beginnings to a story – I give you guys the Sirius sequel. I appreciate so much the love you always show me, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. Enjoy!

**_The Second Sighting of Sirius_ **

She opened her mailbox, heart franticly beating in her chest, only to find a disappointing empty space. Again.

It was alright, she guaranteed to herself. Still plenty of time for the letter to arrive with his birthday wishes. He had never failed before. Usually his letters would arrive with the morning post on her birthday, with the precision of a Swiss clock. But maybe he had been preoccupied and had delayed to post it until the last minute. Surely he wouldn’t miss her birthday. Would he?

It started eight years ago, on her nineteenth birthday. The very next year after that unforgettable moment in time in the Scottish Highlands. Sometimes when she felt lonely, particularly after Quentin Lambert’s sudden death, she would open the cherry-wood box resting on her dresser, and would read his very first letter, the paper yellow on the edges and worn out from her fingers, smiling at the bold calligraphy.

“ _Dear Tousled Sheep,_

_I flatter myself to think that you remember our meeting last year. But just in case you don’t, I’ll remind you that I’m the redheaded ~~handsome~~ ~~strong~~ **boy** ,” - _Here the word had been highlighted multiple times, accompanied by a rough caricature drawing of a boy with his hair on fire. _– “That saved you most gallantly in Scotland. I carried your heavy arse back to safety, with great personal risk ~~of a pneumonia~~ ~~a cracked rib from laughing.~~ And so it happens that I found myself in the knowledge that today is your birthday, for which I congratulate you most sincerely. _

_I promised to find you again when I’m older ~~and wiser~~ , but until that day I cannot prevent myself from wanting to talk to you, Sassenach. I wish to be present for your special day, even in this simple way. The fact that I had to ~~blackmail~~ ~~seduce~~ convince Mrs. Baird, the owner of the inn, to give me your address from her records shall remain forever a secret between us.  _

_Happy birthday, Claire! My beautiful and remarkable English lass. As I cannot manage to send a kiss in the envelope, please keep this as a token of my sincere admiration._

_Yours,_

_Jamie Fraser_ ”

She had kept that gift all those years. It was a small signet ring made of silver, yet too big to fit her slender fingers, embellished with a blossom thistle. But she wanted to keep it close to her, so she started to wear it around her neck, hanging from a delicate chain. Across the years, it became a part of her and only left the skin near her heart for imperious reasons.

Claire’s hand unconsciously moved to caress the warm metal, as she wandered around the apartment.

Her eyes were attracted to the newspaper, the massive capital letters on the cover announcing the end of an era – “ _War is over!_ ”, it read. The war that had pushed her to leave her old apartment in London and seek refuge in Boston, only to be followed by the conflict shortly after. Jamie was safe now, he had to be. Finally he could go home. Finally he could write her more than astray sentences, the paragraphs screaming with the silences of things he couldn’t dare to say, his tender words a whisper of hope and longing.

He had made it a ritual of writing her on her birthday, but as time went by he started to write more often. Sometimes she would receive two letters in the same week; sometimes just once a month. Now and then only a sentence marked the paper – _“I listened to a song on the telephony and thought of you, Sassenach.”_ ; occasionally multiple pages, describing his adventures and tribulations, which she re-read with the enthusiasm she usually dedicated to a novel from her favourite writer.

With a sardonic smile, Claire remembered vividly the anguish that had accompanied her everyday, in those damned six month without receiving a letter from Jamie. Not a word for _six insufferable months_. It was around the time he, himself, had turned eighteen. That letter was buried in the bottom of the box, blotted marks on the paper a testimony of tears shed when the letter finally arrived.

_“ ~~My dear~~ Claire,”_ He had written with a shaky hand.

_“I kissed a girl during the festival in the village._

_I promised myself I wouldn’t make excuses. I wanted to kiss her, I think. Yes, I did. But not for her. ~~You~~_

_I owe you nothing. I know that with the rationality that sometimes manages to grace my brains. We aren’t exactly promised. We aren’t a couple. ~~What am I to you?~~ I’m not your boyfriend. And yet…I gave my heart to your keeping the day I met you. I cannot say I regret it. But sometimes I forget that you are real, Sassenach. That you are far more than words on letterhead paper. Sometimes I am just a man. ~~Sometimes I just want so badly to kiss you~~. I’m flawed. And I couldn’t resist the urge to know what is like to touch someone in such a way. _

_But you are something to me. Something worth waiting for. And for that - I am sorry._

_Jamie_

_P.S. – I didn’t enjoy it much. I don’t know if it’s always so moist and uncomfortable. I’m fairly certain it would be different with ~~y~~ someone I loved.”_

She had felt broken after that letter. Cursed him and called him the ugliest names her rich and imaginative vocabulary – learnt with great enthusiasm during years in excavations and men’s rooms - could encompass. Afterwards she cried, to the growing frustration and dismay of Uncle Lamb, unable to comprehend what news could be so devastating to her usually very practical and poised niece. But later that night, lying in bed wide awake, she had understood the challenge in those words and the value of his honesty. And she dreamt of a deep and tender voice that she had never heard before, but that reminded her somehow of a boy she once knew, whispering to her _“You are something to me.”_

The next day she had sat in the window seat, the soft English sun enveloping her, and had written him in a firm hand.

_“James,_

_You ~~fucking bastard~~ are right – you owe me nothing. I’ve kissed ~~many~~ other boys too in the past, when I felt I should. Perhaps we shouldn’t imprison ourselves in promises made in youth – instead maybe we should live our lives as we see fit. And if someday we choose to bind ourselves, we will know the depth of our loss and gain. _

_Claire_

_P.S. – But I am glad you didn’t enjoy it. I shall imagine her an ugly ~~witch~~ girl, with a wart on the tip of her nose.”_

Over time their letters became more personal. They shared almost everything with each other, even their infatuations with other people, making sure that in spite the distance between them they were always present in each other’s lives. One winter, after Jamie had written her saying he was thinking of moving to London to study - as he had acquired a growing fascination for ancient languages -, Claire had answered him trying to sound as casual as possible.

_“Dear Jamie,_

_Maybe you should come visit me in London. We could spend some time together and I’ll give you shelter while you look at schools._

_Yours,_

_Claire”_

But soon after that war hatched in Europe like an evil creature, plunging everything in darkness, shattering their hopes of a reunion. Claire remembered how she had sat by the window looking outside that day, her vision blurred by tears, his letter creased in her fist, struggling to keep emptiness and fear away.

“ _Claire,_

_I have enlisted to serve my country. I know I promised you I would wait, but the necessity is too great. Every day I hear of people dying and losing their loved ones. Just two days ago, London was bombed again, shells dropping from the sky like deadly rain. I can’t keep hiding in Scotland, waiting for the blood to flood my doorstep._

_I must!_

_I ~~Lo~~ carry you with me always. _

_Jamie.”_

During the war years, even after her moving to Boston, he had written to her as frequently as possible. But his words became increasingly more desperate and his last letter, delivered two months ago, was carved in her brain like a touch of black ice.

“ _Claire,_

_When I’m so tired I think my bones will turn into dust; when I’m so lonely even my soul aches; when I’m thirsty and hungry beyond physical pain; when I have no dreams and hopes left; when war seems to be all there was and all there will ever be; when despair calls himself my friend – even then, there is still you. You save me everyday from the abyss. I must return to you. I must kiss you, like I promised you once._

_What’s left is yours,_

_Jamie_ ”

Claire was afraid. Terribly afraid that those would be his last words, of a promise he couldn’t keep. That she would be doomed forever to live with the ghost of a great love, never fulfilled.

It was late now. No more letters would arrive and he would miss her birthday for the first time since they’ve met. She contemplated her empty apartment, the threat of another lonesome and sleepless night.

Suddenly she heard a knock on the door. A low sound, like the person knocking was hesitant about doing so. Certain that it would be Mrs. Meyers asking about her fugitive fat cat again, she immediately opened the door.

His hair had been clipped very short. She could tell because it had none of the soft waves and cowlicks that once made it look like fire caressed by the wind. He was holding his green uniform hat in his hands, his face bowed down. Claire felt a tremendous peace washing over her, no restlessness or disturbance, but something falling into place somewhere inside her.

He breathed deeply and looked up, their eyes meeting.

“Jamie.” She babbled. “You’re here.”

“Happy birthday, Claire.” He said and the deep, husky, rumble of his voice made a goosebump travel down her spine. “I’m sorry for coming uninvited, but…” He licked his lips. “I had to come.”

For the first time she realized how tired he looked. His blue eyes were surrounded by shadows, his shoulders bent like he carried an invisible weight about him. So distant of the lively boy she remembered from the Highlands.

“The war is over. They told us to go home.” He glanced at her, studying her glass face. “And so… I did.”

“I was worried about you.” She managed to say in a soft voice, watching the way his fingers tapped his thigh like a conductor setting the pace. “I was waiting for your letter.”

“This time I dinna think a letter would be enough.” Jamie answered with a light smile, that remembered her so much of the way he used to be that she wanted to cry. _He_ was still there, somewhere. “I dreamed sae many times with this moment, finally coming to see ye…” He shook his head. “But that was before. Before the war.”

“I’m sure…”

“Nay.” He nervously fumbled with his hair, clearly still not used to its length. “I dinna ken if I have enough to give ye still. I’m not the man I was.”

They stood in silence for a moment, measuring each other.

“You are still the boy I wanted to kiss in the Highlands.” She whispered. “I just know it.”

“I thought about going away and stop writing to ye…for good.” Jamie’s left hand crossed the space between them, slowly, and delicately touched her face. Just on the spot near her lips he once had kissed, so many years before. “But I had this promise to keep.”

And before she could answer, his strong hands were around her waist, as he captured her between his arms. Roughly enough, but not as much as she wanted to, he slammed the door shut with his foot and pressed her against the hard surface. His lips touched hers, careful like a thirsty man tasting water to make sure it’s safe to drink. Jamie offered her gentleness, but it wasn’t gentleness that she wanted, not now, not after so much time. Claire’s fists knotted in his jacket, pulling him harder against her.

Jamie groaned softly and then he kissed her, in a delicious and entirely _inappropriate_ way, his hands travelling up and down her back and waist.

Claire had been kissed before by men who did a decent job of it. But they never gave kissing their whole mind. There was always something – the desire to get to the next step with her, the underlying comparison with other girls, the concern with the technique. When Jamie kissed her, there was nothing else. It was eternal. _Everlasting_. He had no other plans or places to go. Just kissing her.

When they finally came apart, air long gone from their lungs, he closed his eyes and smiled against her mouth.

“I was right.” He said, in a somewhat smug voice. “ _It is_ different with someone ye love.”

“You are bloody late.” She answered, breathless, already craving the feel of him against her again. “Several years late, actually.”

Jamie smiled and fondled her neck, his fingers lightly touching the silver chain, his ring clearly in sight nestled between the curve of her breasts. Claire marvelled at the man he had become, so close to her imagination and yet so amazingly beyond it.

“I’m here now, tousled sheep.” His capable hands entangled in the riot of her hair, keeping her close, so she could see the intensity in his eyes. “I’m here to kiss ye, as ye deserve to be kissed. I’m here to touch ye, as a lass like ye should be touched. I’m here to share yer dreams and fears, yer entire life. I’m here to tell ye, I have loved ye since the first time I saw ye on that hill in Scotland, my _Sassenach_. And I’ll be your friend, guardian, husband, confident, lover. Claire, I’ll be everything to ye, as you’ve been to me.”

He was offering her everything this time. No more words on paper, no more longing while miles apart, no more promises without date. The future was here, now, should she take him.

Claire’s hand grabbed his, as she smiled and guided him inside her apartment, in the direction of her room.

“I think I’ll marry _you_ , James Fraser.”


	5. Andromeda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place in the Middle Ages. Don’t go looking for much historical and speech accuracy though. Enjoy!

**_Andromeda_ **

“I’d rather die than marry the Scottish barbarian!” Claire yelled through the door, pacing around her chamber like a wild animal in confinement. “Do you hear me? I’ll throw myself from the highest tower and then you _will be_ properly ruined!”

“My dear, you haven’t even met him!” Sir Quentin Lambert answered, trying to sound appeasing, facing the closed door hiding his stubborn niece.

“And I won’t!” She growled back, fury making curls escape from the previously perfect braided chignon. “I don’t care how much you owe his family. We will find another way.”

“There isn’t another way, Claire.” His voice turned grave. “If they wished so, they could take away everything right now – Beauchamp Castle and every horse, servant, tapestry and grain of dust in it. The Lord of Lallybroch showed us some leniency, when he agreed to forgive our debts in exchange of a marriage contract.”

“ _Your_ debts. Not mine.” She said through her teeth. “We were perfectly alright before Milord started to wager on jousting tournaments. So why don’t you marry some Fraser widow and be done with it?”

“I’m afraid they are currently lacking convenient ladies.” He replied with alacrity. “But they are being fairly magnanimous. It’s not some esquire from a smaller house they are offering you, but the heir of Lallybroch himself, Lord James Fraser.”

“Lord _Boar_ , I say.” She opened the door, facing him, her cheeks flaming with the fire within her. “Don’t you see, Uncle? They _are_ taking everything. A man is to come here and make me his obedient wife, to sire him a dozen snotty children and do only as I’m told. I can’t bear it!”

“Claire.” Quentin moved to put his arm around her shoulders, trying to calm her. “That is the destiny and duty of a woman, a noble lady like yourself. But Lord James has a reputation of kindness and fairness. He might be better than the average Englishman.”

“Which is not saying much.” She replied sternly, escaping his embrace. “This place is my home. My heritage from my parents. Why can’t I be Lady and master here? Why do I need a man to claim back what is already mine?”

“Don’t be facetious, dear.” He said firmly. “No woman can be left by herself. I ought to have smacked you when you were a child, to crush those silly notions.”

“You could have tried.” She smiled a little. Her uncle was a gentle man, far more than most, who loved her dearly. After the death of her parents in a fire, he had stepped up to the task of raising her and had been a fatherly figure, always caring and mostly tender.

The sound of horses galloping and yelling of salutes by the sentries at the gate flowed through the window.

“They are here.” He said, nervously twisting his hands. “Will you please behave?”

“I make no such promises.” Claire answered. “I’ll be myself.”

“That was _exactly_ what I was afraid of.” He snorted. “Give his Lordship a chance.” And he quickly caressed her cheek, before he went out to meet the visitors.

Claire hissed and looked at herself. Her hair was untamed and escaping any attempt of looking civilized. She was wearing her most threadbare dress, an indigo blue gone almost grey in the hemline, which made her look careless. It was perfect. She wasn’t interested in trying to impress anyone, quite the opposite actually. Maybe if she seemed like a peasant, the pompous lord would leave her alone and she could have her peaceful life back.

Claire walked outside her room, slow and solemn like a prisoner condemned to hang, making her way to the Great Hall. All around her the servants worked like a competent hive of bees, busy with arrangements for the feast later and the tournament to follow, all to celebrate her impending nuptials.

Coming around the corner to the Hall, she heard their voices. They were talking agreeably, with a hint of laughter in their voices, like long-time friends. It made blood boil in her veins. _“Traitor!”_ , she directed mentally to her uncle.

As she entered the room, she could see Quentin sitting by the fire, a dark-haired man with a flourishing beard perched just across him. His eyebrows were thick and he seemed somewhat sour and serious. Her stomach lurched.

She waited patiently that they acknowledged her presence.

“Oh, here you are dear.” Uncle Lamb finally noticed her. “May I present you my niece, Lady Claire Beauchamp?”

Claire made a small curtsy, much less pronounced than the station “Heir to Lord of Lallybroch” demanded, a clear disrespect that anyone with two functioning eyes could see.

“Delighted, I’m sure.” She said, her nostrils flaring. “I hope the journey has been pleasant Milord, since you had to go to such lengths to find yourself a suitable bride.”

The man seemed puzzled for a moment, his brows furrowing even further. But then he grinned, showing the absence of a molar tooth in his jaw.

“Yer uncle was just telling me how positively _radiant_ ye are about the marriage.” He said in a closed Scottish lilt. “I can see that he might be overselling. Are you unhappy then, lass?”

She cackled, humourless.

“I’ll be candid with you, sir. I find the idea of marrying a man I don’t know, having my hand forced, quite insufferable. I’m sure you are…” She looked at him with dismay, struggling to find something appeasing to say, that clearly wasn’t a lie. “Valiant. But I’m not a docile maiden and won’t pretend I am, for you or anyone else.”

“Yer uncle does ye justice, Lady Claire.” A clear and warm voice said in the corner. She turned and saw a young man, which she had missed when entering the room like a summer storm, leaning against the window. He was wearing simple clothes, but his height and frame were imposing. His face was bold, like marble carved by the most gifted master, his eyes the exact shade of the sky behind him. He was beautiful and took her breath away momentarily. “He promised ye were quite remarkable. And so ye are.”

“Who the hell are you?” She asked, confused. He raised a brow hearing her reckless words.

“James Fraser. Your executioner, I believe.” He smiled, amused. “Ye were addressing my godfather, Murtagh Fraser.”

“Oh.” Claire replied weakly, trying to regain the composure lost after contemplating him.

“Aye.” He studied her with an interested look.

“I believe we are ready for some dinner.” Quentin said happily. “Shall we?”

****

Jamie was tending his horse, as he always did after riding him hard. In spite of his noble birth, his father made sure he knew how to fend for himself, doing the simple tasks every valid man should be able to perform. He smiled, remembering the tournament that morning.

He had entered the joust and won without great effort. He was well prepared and his physical qualities usually gave him the edge when fighting shorter knights, either with sword or lance. When victory was accomplished, he had dismounted and turning to Claire - sitting in the place of honour looking utterly annoyed -, had fallen on his knee in front of her, dedicating his victory to his future wife. She had seemed irritated, but a soft blush on her temples and neck betrayed her.

Later the horse contest had taken place. It was meant to be a mad race through the terrain around Beauchamp Castle, testing the equestrian abilities and dexterity of the participating knights.

He had been ahead almost since the beginning, working as one with his black stallion, Donas. But suddenly a rider appeared out of nowhere next to him, wearing a white armour, riding a brown mare. Jamie had marvelled with the other knight’s audacity and easy grace, how he had pushed the mare to jump across the pond, taking the lead.

They had ridden neck to neck, their knees almost touching, neither willing to give away even an inch. When they were reaching the edge of the field, where the finish line had been placed, the unknown knight had made a bold move in the terrain, jumping in front of him to grasp victory.

Jamie had dismounted, took off his helmet and bent his head in respect to the other knight. He, on the other hand, remained in full armour, his breast plates ornamented with silvery leafs. At last, he bent his head in return and swiftly guided his mare to the stables, ignoring the cheers and compliments of the gathered crowd.

Jamie walked behind him, at a cautious distance, suspicion arising in his heart. When he turned around the corner, the knight had disappeared without a trace, leaving a smile on his lips.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Sir.” He heard her say. Jamie turned and watched as Claire came into his line of vision, wearing a velvety green dress, her hair loose around her face. She looked lovely.

“No more than I expected to encounter ye here, Lady Claire.” He answered, continuing his task. “But perhaps I should. Ye are quite the amazon, I hear.”

“I like horses.” She conceded. “Who told you that?”

“Yer uncle told me all about yer unusual tastes during the banquet yesterday, I believe.” Jamie stopped and looked at her. “But I’ve witnessed it myself, haven’t I?”

“What do you mean?” She questioned carefully.

“Quite the victory, Milady.” He smiled. “I dinna think I ever saw a woman riding like that and so fearless doing it.”

“I don’t think I grasp your meaning.” She turned to leave, but Jamie reached for her and grabbed her hand.

“Oh, I think ye do. Ye are the mysterious rider who took victory from me. Ye wanted to evaluate me up close. To measure me. And above all I think ye wished to show me who ye really are. And see what I’d do about it.”

They stayed in silence, staring at each other, their hands still united. Jamie slowly let go of her, regretting the loss of contact with her smooth skin.

“How did ye know?” She asked, casually.

“A knight that doesna show his face…I’ve been watching ye. I’ve seen how ye move. Graceful and brave. So I had my suspicions. I just went and saw yer mare and confirm what I already knew to be true.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve done it, either.” She confessed, boldly. “No one even looked in my direction twice.”

“Men dinna look at women.” Jamie said, resuming his brushing of Donas. “Not like that. They only look searching for beauty. Pleasure. Tenderness. They don’t search for strength. Or value. They would never believe a woman, a lady, could best them at anything except embroidery.”

“But you do.” She challenged him.  He halted and faced her.

“Aye.” He was serious and intent. “My father always wanted me to have a wife that matched me. I don’t need a piece of furniture for my Castle, as I already have plenty, but someone to talk to, to help me rule my lands. Yer reputation precedes ye, Lady Claire. He thought ye might be suitable and arranged our marriage.”

“Yes.” Claire answered, bitterly. “And I was to become your Lady and have nothing to say about it. Are you about to threaten to expose me as the unsuitable bride I am, so I’d marry you?”

“Do not offend me.” Jamie said, angry, kicking some straw nearby. “Do not take me for yer low expectations on men. I regret not having yer opinion asked beforehand.” He assured her, calming himself. “But ye’re right. I can see now all that ye are and won’t impose such an indignant contract upon ye.”

“What are you saying, Lord Fraser?”

“I will not claim by force what should be given willingly.” He smiled, sadness and tenderness blending in his eyes. “Yer debt has been pardoned. I already sent for the notes of debt and will give them to yer keeping, as soon as they arrive. I free ye of any commitment ye might have with me; or my family.”

Claire looked at him, bewildered.

“Why are you giving up on this?” She asked, at last.

“It’s what ye wanted.” He stood near her, noticing the shades of honey in her eyes. “Is it not?”

“Stop!” She demanded, exasperated, opening her arms. “Stop deciding my own life for me. Perhaps I want this.” Claire whispered. “Perhaps marrying you is not so insufferable.”

“Ye do?” He asked, hope burning in his chest like a beacon.

“I…” She sighed. “I’ll embarrass you. I’ll say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I’ll speak my mind whether you want it or not. I’ll beat you everytime we go horse-riding, I expect. And I’ll probably never apologize for any of it. If you can’t deal with this, please…just…don’t. Don’t do this. Don’t make me love you, so you may break my heart when I’m not enough.”

“Claire.” His voice was husky and his arms were close to her body, his fingers tentatively touching her waist. “Do ye want this? Me? Are ye sure?”

She glanced at him like he was the sun, too bright to look straight on, and smiled.

“How could I want anybody else, now that I know you exist?”


	6. Sirius Supernova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is preceded by "Sirius" and "The Second Sighting of Sirius". This is the end of that trilogy. It contains feels. It will stay inside the Constellations series because…well, you’ll understand why. I do love you guys, so…see you on the other side.

**_Sirius Supernova_ **

“So, do ye intend to wake up the bairns?” Jamie panted in her ear, watching fascinated as she melted underneath him.

“And whose fault do you think that is?” She replied eventually, opening one eye, a blissful smile frozen on her lips.

“As I recall it, ye were there as well, Sassenach.” He brushed her naked hip with his fingers, rolling to lie next to her on his back.

“To be completely fair…” Claire brushed the ruddy hairs on his chest. “You did most of the heavy work.”

He snorted.

“Always a pleasure to serve ye, Sassenach.”

“Oh, so you are under my command, is it?” She said playfully, lightly biting one of his nipples. He yelped. “To do as I wish?”

He cocked an eyebrow, a lazy and somewhat smug smile dawning in his mouth.

“Aye. Give me five minutes and I’ll show ye.” His hand cupped her breast. “I might even foresee some things ye never thought ye desired.”

“Hmmm.” She moaned softly, as his skilled fingers stroked her tender nipples. “I’m intrigued. But you are an old man now, Fraser. I think you may need more than five minutes.”

“Dinna hear ye complaining of my auld age just ten minutes ago, when I was on my knees between yer legs.” He gave her a lopsided smile, making her blush.

“I’ll say this.” She caressed his flaming hair, still barely touched by the passing years. “You are still very flexible for a forty year old.”

They kissed, time flowing around them, immersed in a bubble where their connection was the only existing thing.

“I presume this was my birthday present?” He eventually asked, peeking to the scandalous _lingerie_ on the floor beneath the bed.

“Yes, it was.” She entwined her fingers with his. “Not sure you enjoyed it enough, though. You unwrapped it pretty quickly.”

“Dinna fash, Tousled Sheep.” He traced her full bottom lip with his finger. “That will show ye just how much I loved it. I _really_ did.”

“Good.” She said, satisfied. “I’m expecting something equally astounding on my next birthday.”

“What’s wrong with my letters?” He asked indignantly, slowly massaging her shoulder. “I thought ye liked them!”

“I do.” She hurried to kiss him for comfort. “I expect by the time we are eighty there won’t be enough space in the house to keep them. But I do love them, Jamie. They tell our story. I wouldn’t trade them for all the diamonds and perfumes in the world.”

“Maybe I can write something more creative the next time.” Jamie said, while his hand travelled along the slopes of her body. “And we can reenact it afterwards. Ye ken, when the kids are asleep.”

 “Make sure you hide _that one_ well enough.” She laughed. “We wouldn’t want _another_ incident with the children asking us difficult questions. Faith already knows enough as it is.”

“Hmpf.” He made a noise with his throat, Scottish to the bone. “Perhaps I’ll write it in the _Gaedlig_ , then.”

Jamie’s touch was becoming more difficult to ignore, as he applied all his considerable enthusiasm.

“It’s quite the risk.” Claire said, her voice caught in her throat. “You know I’m terrible at it. If you ask me to kiss your navel I’ll probably end up sucking your big toe, or something.”

“Will ye ever learn to speak the Gaedlig?” He asked, looking intently at her, as she straddled him.

“I already know how to say the only thing that matters, really.” She smiled at him, the fading light glowing around her, as she made her body home to him again. “ _Tha gaol agam ort.”_

_“Jamie.”_

He heard her moan his name, as she had then, in lust. He had always loved to watch her lose herself at the very end, and the noises that she made when she surrendered to him.

“Jamie.” She repeated, calling him.

But this was different. No pleasure or elation in her voice. There wasn’t a trace of the breathless laugh that usually colored her voice. No tenderness.

_Pain._

He came awake instantly, the dream of a memory bursting like a soap bubble, his body mimicking the impact of falling. He rolled over in bed, searching for his wife. She had her eyes closed and strained, her breathing coming fast and laboriously.

“What is it, _mo nighean airgead_?”

“It hurts.” She whispered, a tear sliding down her cheek. “My chest.”

“Did ye take yer medication?” He asked anxiously, groping to hold her hand. She nodded affirmatively in reply. “How bad is it?”

“Bad.” Claire answered shortly.

Her heart condition was not a novelty. It had started when she turned sixty – first she would get tired after a long walk, humorously calling herself “An old hag”. Then she became fatigued after climbing the stairs to the house. Her lips became blue as wild blackberries, her beautiful eyes always surrounded by dark circles. Eventually, even the short distance between their room and the kitchen seemed like a challenge, enough to leave her panting and her chest constricted in pain.

The doctor had been clear – she had congestive heart failure. Even with a rigorous regime of medication and tight vigilance, the prognosis was daunting.

But she remained good humored and calm, tolerating Jamie’s concern and gentle prodding. He almost never left her side, always available to fulfill her every need. He nursed and cherished her with a care that left her smiling, speechless.

“Do ye want me to call the ambulance?” He questioned, trying to access her breathing.

“No.” She said, slowly, shaking her head. Their eyes locked and Jamie saw only tenderness there. Tranquility. Love. “I want to be here. With you.”

“But Sassenach…” He tried to say, squeezing her hand.

“Jamie…” Claire sighed, closing her eyes again. And suddenly, as effortlessly as a feather scattered in the wind, she stopped breathing.

For a moment Jamie had no language. No way to articulate the void that crushed every sense and rational thought.

It was beyond loss – it was pain, cursing through his body, demanding to be felt. Grief roared on, like a storm that battered him with mighty winds that he couldn’t escape. It was unbearable.

The pain receded momentarily, like a wave in low tide, only so he could be plunged into a whirl of memories. A kiss stolen while she slept, her body naked in the dim light of their room. The look on her face as she had called him “ _Boy”_. Claire running in a beach, laughing. Her belly swollen with their first child. The white dress she wore at their wedding. The kiss he gave her that first night together, which he had craved for years – a perfect kiss, that would last a lifetime. _Dear Jamie_. The stack of letters tied with a white ribbon in the cherry-wood box. Her body so close to his under a tree in the Highlands. _Tousled sheep_. “ _Tha gaol agam ort_.”

“Claire.” He cried out, the word escaping his brutalized soul. But he had no breath to shout it, as he would have; he gasped it out, tentatively touching her cheek. “Claire.”

Claire, the keeper of his heart since he was a boy, had gone where he could not reach her. She ended; and nothing else could ever begin.

Jamie had no wish to be in a world empty of her. No desire to prolong a life where she was not walking by his side. That her heart – so loving and fully committed – had betrayed her so, seemed like the utmost injustice.

He knew there were paths to death inside oneself - usually forgotten after birth, when we came into this world crying in joy or regret – he had felt them, so many years ago, during the war. A mechanism to self-destruction, built to preserve the mind in the darkest places. Yes, there had been times when he had felt tempted to follow them through and let go of fear and degradation.

But Claire was his living flame. Had been then; and had stayed that way for the best part of forty years together. She had held on to him and prevented his end, when life itself seemed pointless.

She was gone.

He could still feel it, though – the soft burning of the flame inside him, fed not by her presence, but by the memories of a lifetime together. It would be so easy to smother it, to blow it out and go gently into the unknown.

Jamie was afraid. Not of death – he had no fear of pain and had faith enough to believe something else followed this existence. What he feared was eternal separation. Oblivion. That his memories of Claire would be erased in the afterlife. Doomed to never meet again the person that set his fire ablaze. He had no interest in lonesome eternity.

Could he carry on for a time without her? Delay the expected reunion out of fear?

He looked at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the trees outside dancing there. Solace deserted him. He thought of their children, how they would feel with them gone – but they were fully grown now and raised right. Claire’s absence was just greater than anyone’s presence.

No, he couldn’t do this. To carry on. He must be reunited with her. Half a heart couldn’t make for an acceptable life, to someone who knew what it felt like to be whole.

Her hands were cold now, warmth slipping away, like his heart had slipped away with her. He looked at her and saw all the women he had loved – the girl, the woman, the healer, the lover, the friend, the mother, the companion. He touched the streaks of silver hair and felt the echo of life still there; caressed her lips and heard her crystalline laugh; kissed her closed eyes and saw the whiskey that always made him drunk in love.

Jamie softly kissed her sweet mouth and nuzzled her curly hair one final time. His arms embraced her body, sheltering her once more.

He closed his eyes, finally seeking her. The flame gone out.

His heart stopped beating.

What he saw then was not what he expected.

They were lying together in a hill under the stars, their hands almost touching. She was smiling and his heart soared seeing her lips so alive again. She was different somehow – young again, her brown hair combed in a slightly different way, a scar in her forearm that he knew nothing of -, but still her in all the ways that mattered.

Jamie heard the distant whispers of their voices, far away enough that he couldn’t understand their words. But they spoke the language of the heart – and for that he needed no words to comprehend.

Their lips were almost touching now. Stars kept falling from the sky above, heedless of the creation of a supernova between them.

And Jamie knew he would always find his way back to her.


	7. Betelgeuse

**_Betelgeuse_ **

Jamie walked through the dark street, the lamplight above him sizzling like the threat of a ghostly apparition. His feet stomped on the sidewalk, as he rushed to arrive at his destination before the hour was too late. He checked his wristwatch, pressing the side button. His own voice drifted from the gadget saying “seven o’clock.”

At distance the first siren echoed, advising the inhabitants of London to finish their tasks, rush to catch the subway home, say their goodbyes to their friends and co-workers for the day. One hour. All they had now was sixty minutes to savour the streets of the city, before the alarming sound of the curfew ripple through the night, imprisoning them in the solitude of their homes, like desolated islands in an endless sea.

It had been so for the past ten years, since the great explosion that marked the end of the world as it had been, forcing the government to implement extreme measures to guarantee a degree of normalcy. Safety. Unity.

As he saw the outline of the church dawning in the shadows, Jamie couldn’t avoid but to remember what life was like before. When people weren’t so afraid all the time. When he was free to roam in the night if he wanted to, watching dawn finding its way in the corners of the quiet streets he knew so well. When laughing was natural and effortless. In 2027 - ten years since God closed his eyes for a second, allowing for chaos and pain to ensue - all those moments seemed to belong only in books displayed in dust-plagued museums.

He pressed the carved wooden door, its heavy weight on his palm the beginning of the healing process that brought him there again and again. To the temple of happier days. To the silence and peace, where fear and hate had no place.

He entered the aisle, his eyes adjusting to the dim light created by candles lit on the altar, the chill of the stoned walls rippling on his skin.

Jamie kneeled quickly and made the sign of the cross, commending his soul in a gesture as natural as a second skin. Then he noticed her.

She was sitting in the first bench before the altar, the white wedding gown billowing around her. He could only see her profile, but the elegance of her brow took his breath away.

He walked slowly, inevitably attracted to the unusual sight of her beauty; but common sense and good manners advised him to stay at a respectable distance, and so he chose a seat on the other side of the aisle, where he could study her discretely.

She must have ripped off the veil from her hair, for it was pressed now between her hands with such force that her knuckles turned white. Her brown hair was dishevelled, riotous curls escaping what had undoubtedly been an intricate hairstyle. Her face – gorgeous, with a skin white as Italian marble, a full bottom lip and ears of a fairy – was serene, but tears kept stubbornly streaming down her face.

She was silent, but Jamie noticed that her eyes were focused somewhere above them, and eventually her lips formed the words _“Show me the way”._

Feeling the need to reach out and grab her tormented soul in his own two hands and cradle it, instead he moved slowly to sit closer to her, on the edge of the same bench.

“May I help ye, lass?” He asked, before he managed to control himself.

The bride seemed surprised to notice him and quickly tried to wipe away the tears from her face, slightly smudged from black mascara.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed your prayers.” She apologized in a perfect English accent. “I didn’t mean to.”

Jamie shrugged, slightly tilting his head in a dismissive gesture.

“It was me who came and interrupted ye, lass.” He tried a reassuring smile. “I should be the one offering ye my apologies.”

“A Scot.” She nodded, acknowledging his lilt. “You are far away from home.”

“I guess this is it.” He answered, making her eyebrows raise in question. “Ach, not _here_. I meant London. For a time, at least.”

“Oh.” Her nose was puffed and red and she looked ridiculously lovely. Jamie struggled to control the impulse of catching one of her tears with the tip of his finger, caressing her skin.

“Did yer groom…” He asked tentatively, accessing the strangeness of the situation. “Left?”

“No.” She swallowed hard and avoided his eyes. “I left _him_.”

Jamie stayed in silence, surprised into muteness. Her words floated around them and he wished to give her space and time, so she could expand her story if she wished so.

“Evidently I was to be married earlier today.” She pointed to the discarded veil. “But when the priest asked - _“Will you take this man, to have and to hold, until your lives shall be done?” -_ I….I just couldn’t. _Wouldn’t_.” She looked at him, her eyes submersed in painful confusion. "I was engaged to Frank for years. He was the only man I ever loved. And there I was, wearing a puffy dress that I didn’t want, surrounded by people that meant nothing to me, about to marry a man that suddenly felt like a total stranger and to go on a fucki – erm, _sorry_ – honeymoon to the Alps.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t even like skiing! Or freaking lavender linen towels!”

Jamie snorted in amusement at her recognition and a shadow of a smile was born on the corner of her mouth.

“I was transformed into this shadow of myself. I was becoming Mrs. Randall.” She glanced at him, a fierce look about her that made his heart thunder. “And forgot about Claire. But I want to be Claire. I can’t deny her.”

“Aye.” He agreed softly, like a priest in the anonymous darkness of the confessional.

“But above all else, I understood just then that I was to be committed to this man, to form with him something more than the sum of us both. If I took him, I was agreeing to have his heart and soul on my hands, to do with them as I wished. To have such power and such fear of it...It didn’t feel right. And so I said _“No, I don’t.”_ and walked away without looking back. I wandered for a bit, and eventually ended up here. I decided to sit for a while, as it was peaceful enough to hear myself think.”

“Well,” Jamie started after some cautious thought. “Living someone else’s truth is not worth it. If ye felt ye were missing out on something, then I think it’s for the best.”

“Do you?” She asked slowly, her amber eyes piercing his. “What if I never love again? What if this was it, my one chance, and I spoiled it based on some fantasy of a perfect but unreachable sentiment?”

“Did ye, now?” He retorted bluntly. “Loved him? Ye ken, I’ve always thought that ye can feel a lot of things for many people. Particularly at different times in yer life. But love…the kind that poets write sonnets about…maybe is just for the one person. Perhaps Frank just wasn’t it.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Aye. I do…Claire.” He used her name, making her jump in surprise before she realized she inadvertently had revealed it herself, and smiled.

“I’m Jamie.” He offered, as she unpinned the remains of her hair, letting it flow around her face like a waterfall. It smelt of jasmine and lemon, with an undertone of saltiness from her tears and sweat.

“Nice to meet you, Jamie.” She said, offering her hand for him to shake. He did so, feeling for the first time the heat and smoothness of her skin, which made his own tingle with a need he didn’t fully understand. “Thank you for listening. I guess it’s safe to say that you don’t spend your days counselling runaway brides?”

“No.” He laughed. “But I might be in for a career change. My job is much duller than this. I work in a publishing company, doing translations of books talented people wrote.”

She moved to turn her body towards him, giving him a full frontal sight of her face; his eyes travelled from it to the slopes of her body, the curve of breast and waist, simultaneously concealed and enhanced by the wedding gown. In his chest and belly something burned, an incandescent lust made fire and coal by the connection of their souls. He wanted her alright, badly. But what he wanted went further than the desires of physical completion – he wanted to drink on the very fountain of who she was, rejoice on the knowledge of her multitudes. To be broken, shattered completely – only to be reshaped by the tip of her fingers into something she would love.

“Anything good you’re working on?” She asked.

“Aye. I just saw this poem and memorized this bit.” He looked her in the eyes, feeling very tender and exposed and recited in a hoarse voice. “ _”Everything that is a glowing flame, everything that you feel, everything that is life and vibrates eternally is your being mine, Love, and my being yours.”_ ”

“You’re right.” She said serious, but a touch of pink was finding its way to her cheeks. “It’s very good.”

They stayed in comfortable silence for a while, each immersed in their own thoughts. Eventually she spoke again.

“I think I always knew.” She was looking again to the altar, her long fingers fidgeting with a ring on her hand. It was a thick band with a sizable diamond glowing in the soft light. “That it wasn’t right. I had this nagging feeling always on the back of my mind – you know, like when you feel you’re forgetting something important, but can’t quite place it. This emptiness that…even when I was happy…I was never complete. But I was too scared to do something about it.” Claire took her ring off, analysing it one final time, before placing it on the side next to her. “What is really weird is that…I don’t feel it, just now. Not anymore.”

He wondered what God would think of him kissing her in a sacred place, underneath the stilled eyes of his own son, saviour turned martyr on the cross. But Jamie thought that if He was omnipresent and omniscient, than he certainly was within his heart, and therefore knew the depth and intensity of his feelings. Knew love as the most holy of emotions, the one capable of saving and healing any wound. And would not only forgive but smile upon those who led their lives through love.

But her decision was still very fresh and the weight of it still burdened her. He would wait; give her time to understand the things that he already saw in her, to become a person who could be loved without restrain. She was raw and her pieces scattered, needing to fix herself – and when she was finally ready he would be there to place the final touch to mend her heart.

If one day he must be dust, ashes and nothing but darkness – then let her be his dawn; let her discover how to lose herself in him, only to find herself anew.

Jamie’s fingers softly touched the back of Claire’s hand and her fingers by reflex sought his own, interweaving their hands. Fear had no place there – it belonged in the outside world and could not reach them, their united hands an invincible shield.

“Will you stay?” She asked softly, her eyes glowing in the candlelight. “Just for a little while longer?”

“Aye.” He answered, gripping her hand. “While ye want me, I’ll be here.”

Later the sirens cried calling them home and inevitably away from each other. But in his mind he saw Claire walking towards him in a clear day of blue skies, a different white dress caressing her beautiful body.  And on her lips lived a smile that was meant only for him.


	8. Perseus

**_Perseus_ **

Olive neighed as Claire brushed his mane, laboriously trying to untangle the stubborn knots in his dark hair. He tried to shove his nose underneath her armpit, making her laugh.

“Easy, boy!” She said, amused, pointing the brush to the horse in a monitory tone. “You do like to be the stud in here, making all the mares pine and wiggle their tails for you, don’t you? So you have to be patient while I help you stay all handsome!”

The hours near dusk were upon them – the big field, visible through the open shutters of the stable, was beginning to be painted in pink, red and orange. It had been a delightful day, the weather warm even underneath the shadows of the trees spread near the paths were she had ridden, elated to be outdoors with Olive after a long and tiresome week at work.

“Claire.” The male voice called behind her. She closed her eyes for a second, silently fortifying herself for the unpleasant moments to come, and sighed. Claire gently patted Olive’s neck and peeked over her shoulder, catching sight of the man biting his bottom lip in nervousness.

“Frank.” She acknowledged, her voice lacking the warmth of ancient days. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” He answered. His usually impeccable tie hanged loose around his neck, his blazer open in the soft breeze.

“Here?” She moved to catch a bucket nearby in order to fill Olive’s drinking fountain. “You always hated it here. I don’t even remember a time I’d come and you had a nice word to say about it. Always made sure I knew what a waste of time you thought it was.”

“Well, I – yes.” He breathed, gritting his teeth. “I was never a fan of your hobby. One of my many failings, I’m sure. But I’m still glad to see Olive is doing alright. I heard, you know. About the accident.”

“Did you?” She asked sheepishly. “It was several months ago, Frank. If you wanted, I’m sure you could have sent a card at the time, wishing us well. Now this just seems bloody late.” She moved to wash her hands in the water tap. The cold water hitting her palms calmed her nerves a bit, soothing the feeling of blood rushing underneath her skin.

It always saddened her to remember those times, immediately after the accident. Six months ago she had been riding Olive - snow had filled the roads and paths then, like a cloak of crispy fabric – and a car had lost control in the black ice, running over them. She had been hurt, her leg broken – but her dear stallion had suffered the blunt of the trauma.

During the first weeks he would lay very still, refusing to try to walk or eat his favourite treats. Claire would come, even wearing her crutches, and tried to talk to him and heal him with her careful and loving touches. But with each passing day, she began to fear that he would waste away until there was nothing she could do to save him. One day, when she had come to the stables dreading the state he would be in, she found him standing waiting for her, his spirit alive and burning like wildfire.

Their recovery had been long and painful, and they were just beginning to get confident again in going outside the fenced paddock. Her chest felt constricted, echoing what she had felt lying there on the road, snow falling over her like dirt on a burial– cold, helpless and crushed.

“I wanted to come sooner. To call. But I thought that….” He brushed his short hair with his hand in an anxious gesture. “That you didn’t want to see me.”

“And you were right, Frank.”  Claire answered softly. “We’re done. You made your choice and I made mine. Our paths are quite distant from one another.”

“But they could be reunited.” He exclaimed eagerly, stepping to stand closer to her. “What we had was so strong, Claire. We are married, for God’s sake! You are my wife!”

“Just as long as you take to sign those bloody divorce papers, Frank!” Claire declared heatedly. “My lawyer has sent them to you more than four months ago. What are you waiting for?”

“Claire, please.” Frank pleaded, catching her hands. His thumb lightly stroked the back of her hand, his brown eyes searching the connection with hers. “I do love you.”

Claire pulled her hand away from him.

“Your love was ownership, Frank. When you decided to go and teach in Harvard, you not only completely failed to discuss the subject with me, but you had the fucking gall of making calls to get me a job there!”

“I wanted us to be happy. To stay together!” He tried to explain, walking in circles around her. “I wanted what was best for us.”

“I think I can decide what my happiness is on my own.” She tilted her chin, facing him with fierceness. “It’s over, Frank. Please, let me be.”

“I can’t live without you, my love.” He reached for her, grabbing her by the arms, his eyes piercing into hers, trying to find hope there. “I’ll do whatever you want me to. I’ll come back. Hell, I’ll take riding lessons if you want me to. But don’t do this…”

“It’s already done.” Claire said softly, finding enough tenderness in her heart to touch his face, trying to make him understand. She had loved him, once. He had been her teacher in many things, an important figure in her psyche. But she had outgrown him and in his absence had thrived like a flower in fertile soil, away from punishing shadow. “Let me go, Frank. Then we could both find happiness.”

“You just need to remember who we are together, Claire.” He implored, his hands travelling to her waist, as he gripped her in his arms. His mouth was dangerously close to hers, making her feel an unexpected but reassuring loathing at the thought of his moist kiss on her lips.

“Back off. Now!” She snarled, beginning to struggle to get free. His grasp tightened in response and she could smell the brandy in his breathe, that he certainly had used to fortify his resolve.

“I think ye should take yer hands off her now, man.”

They both turned their heads to see a tall red-headed man standing near Olive’s stall, his face a mask of stillness, but his voice sounded imposing and dangerous.

“I beg your pardon?” Frank croaked, his neck turning slightly red, a sign Claire could still readily identify as an explosion of his temper approaching.

“The lady asked ye to let go and so ye should.” The man said, with a ferocious smile. “For yer own sake.”

“I am her _husband_ and we’re just having a disagreement.” Frank barked. “Stay out of it!”

“Ye could be God almighty himself.” His brows furrowed. “She doesna care for yer attentions and that’s plain to see.”

“Who do you think you are?” Frank actually let go of her arms, lost in contempt, leaving a throbbing pain in her arms, in the place his hands had been. “Why is the stable boy meddling in our affairs?”

It was a good question alright, even if Claire was very grateful and relieved for his timely intervention.

“She’s mine.” The red-headed man answered without hesitation, folding his arms in relaxation. Noticing that Frank’s mouth stood ajar, he added helpfully. “I’m Jamie - Claire’s boyfriend.”

“What?!” Frank growled.

“What?!” Claire babbled incredulous, her mouth opened in shock. As Frank’s gaze travelled to her to evaluate her reaction to Jamie’s mind-blowing declaration, she quickly closed her mouth, striving to look calm and not-at-all-surprised.

“Should I just believe this nonsense?” Frank spurted, his fists closed. “That you,” He measured Jamie with a cynical look. “Are the man that Claire chose over me?”

“Ye should.” Jamie said with coolness. “So ye see – it is my problem that ye have yer dirty wee paws on her against her will.”

Claire stood still, her glare quickly alternating between the pair of male specimens before her, thinking that maybe she was still in her practice, sleeping and dreaming with her head atop of a pile of clinical charts. Her eyes finally locked on Jamie.

She had noticed him before at distance, exercising his black mare in the paddock, a beautiful and bold creature with a wicked temper to go with it. Claire had appreciated the way he treated his mount with gentleness, seeming to talk to her as he rode; as well as the broadness of his shoulders and the grace of his thighs and arms. But they had never spoken and she was content to just look at a beautiful man from a safe distance, without having to actually deal with the awkwardness of trying to come up with something to say to him.

“Are you rogering him?” Frank asked with wrath in his eyes, stepping in her direction again, interrupting her daydreaming. “Is that the reason why you won’t give our marriage a second chance?! Because you’re too busy fucking him in the hay?”

“Yes!” She hissed, redness painting her cheeks, both from embarrassment and anger. She moved and went to Jamie, placing her left hand possessively around his waist while her right hand rested on his chest. He smelt of grass and soap – but underlying was his own scent, a muskiness that made her head spin in a wave of sudden dizziness. “I’m fucking him, Frank! And it’s bloody wonderful!” She proclaimed in victory.

She had to give him some praise – Frank Randall was not a complete coward after all. He strode ahead and pushing his fist back, punched Jamie’s jaw, making her gasp with the crude sound of the impact of his knuckles on strong bone.

The Scottish man took the blow almost without flinching and raised his hand to wipe out the smear of blood from his cut lip.

“Well,” He said, moving almost unperceptively to completely shield Claire with his body. “I’ll give ye that one shot, as I know the pain ye must be feeling. But I won’t take a second one standing still. Ye should be going on yer way.”

Frank shook his head and turned his back on them, before he slowly started adjusting his clothes.

“She will break you.” He warned in a hoarse voice. “She’ll become everything just so she could take it all away. She’ll bring pain and heartbreak and before she is done you’ll regret the moment you ever met her.”

“I doubt that, ye see.” Jamie answered, his face serene. “She’s worth all that and more.”

Her still-husband finally walked away, leaving them alone in the half-light, her heart beating like a drum calling for war in ancient tribes.

“I believe I owe you a huge thank you. And an apology for the bruise you’ll be sporting tomorrow. You should really put some ice on it.” She said finally, turning to look at Jamie. He was still following Frank’s fading silhouette with his blue eyes.

“Ach”. He waved his hand, to emphasize that he considered it no big feat at all. “Yer ex-husband is a wee fool. A man should ken when a lass is no longer his.”

“Frank always was a stubborn man.” She sighed, observing as Jamie approached Olive and patted him cheerfully on the head.

“ _Ciamar a tha thu, a charaid?”_ He cooed, as the horse licked his arm with his rough and big tongue.

“He knows you.” Claire realized. “He always tries to bite strangers and people he doesn’t trust. He always bit Frank whenever he dared to come near.” She couldn’t avoid a small smile at that memory.

“Of course he kens me.” Jamie reciprocated her smile. “In fact we’re well acquainted.”

Watching them interact a strong suspicion began to form in Claire’s brain.

“It was you.” She half affirmed, half accused. “You helped him – when he was injured. I couldn’t even get him to move an inch and one day he was just…different. Better. Healed.”

“Aye.” Jamie admitted immediately, taking the brush from the nearby table and resuming Claire’s previous ministrations. “He’s bonny and brave and loves ye dearly. But sometimes a lad needs another lad to guide his way back, ye ken? He needed some guidance and strength.”

“Oh.” She answered. “I…Thank you. For everything.”

“He should meet my mare – _Nighean_. I think they’d get along well.” He proposed, searching her eyes. The intensity there disarmed her for an instant.

“Why did you do it?” She asked, before she could stop herself. “Lied to save me? You didn’t have to. He punched you for it and even if you know my horse, you barely know _me_.”

Was it mischief she saw dancing in his eyes? And something more powerful and scary perhaps, an unworded promise, should she dare to face it?

“I ken enough.” He said simply, patting one last time Olive’s muscular chest before he turned to leave. “I really couldn’t stop myself.”

Claire’s eyes followed him as he walked to the door, before he slightly turned back as if he had forgotten something. He almost whispered it – but clearly enough for her to hear it, loud and clear, in her mind and in her heart.

“Besides, I meant it.” He said. “You’re worth it, Claire.”


	9. Cassiopeia

**_Cassiopeia_ **

She looked pretty annoyed, he thought. Jamie had no desire to be the receiver of _that_ particular look.

He had come to recognize that small wrinkle that appeared between her eyebrows when she was upset or unpleased with something. He had seen it many times sitting in the library, when she was gazing at her Anatomy Atlas, looking at the representation of the inguinal canal as if it had personally offended her. Sometimes that little frown was accompanied with a bite on her full bottom lip; and that usually meant she was about to growl in exasperation and change the page to the much more inconspicuous image of a spleen.

And right now she was looking at Jimmy Watson, babbling with a pint in one hand while the other touched her arm, with a look that anticipated murder. He smiled in amusement, took a sip of his own dark and strong ale, and folded his arms to continue his task of guarding her. Unseen. Unnoticed. Nameless to her.

Jamie recalled the first time he had seen her, almost one year ago. It was a cold September morning and he was running late for practice after a long night dwelling between Dante and Homer – he had a test coming and wanted to kick the year to a good start. It was raining somewhat heavily, but a mere drizzle to a Highland born lad like himself. There was something soothing about the feel of the falling rain, a liquid touch of divine grace – and so he slowed his walk to appreciate the calmness.

Everyone around him was running, a human garden made of umbrellas, trench coats and even books raised above their heads in desperation to avoid the relentless drops.

Except _her_.

She was standing bellow the big oak tree, her face raised to the sky and her eyes closed. Enjoying the feel of the rain on her skin, a beautiful smile flourishing on her lips. She was lovely, with her curly hair damp from the moistness, her floral dress wet enough to highlight the curves of her body.

Something in that image took his breath away. Something in her stroke a spark. They were the only two people embracing the rain amongst a buzzing, hurrying, crowd – and he felt linked to her in a frightening and almost mystical way.

After that he made a routine of detouring from his usual path to get a glimpse of her in the mornings, usually going to classes or taking a stack of gigantic books to the library; sometimes even during lunch in the canteen. He soon realized the main library of the campus was like a sanctuary to her and began to take his own scrambled notes and books to sit across the room from her - and slowly and devotedly dedicated himself to the task of memorizing and deciphering Claire Beauchamp. 

That her dorm was directly in front of his seemed like a blessing and a torture. Sometimes he would stand behind the closed curtains and watched her through the sheerness of the fabric, siting by the open window. And sometimes when he couldn’t manage to conciliate sleep he would get up and roamed his quarters to look at the sky, only to discover she was also awake - and found comfort on the thought that they gazed at the same stars when everyone else was asleep.

In the rare days their paths didn’t cross, even at distance, everything seemed to pale, to acquire a tinge of grey – those were always hazardous days, when he would end up being hit during practice or getting reprehended by a teacher for being distracted when questioned about the work they were presently studying.

 “Jamie!”

He finally noticed the fingers waving in front of his eyes and the face of his best friend, Ian Murray, looking at him bewildered.

“What?” Jamie asked, still watching with the corner of his eye Claire giving Jimmy the cold shoulder.

“Annalise was just here talking to ye, man. She was inviting ye to go to her place and see her rare collection. Jamie, I’m not even sure she was talking about books, ye ken!”

“Was she?” He blurted distracted.

“What is wrong with ye, lad?” Ian asked, moving to stand just in front of Jamie, blocking his view. “When she first arrived to do the exchange program ye talked about the lass night and day. And now she was practically trying to sit on yer lap and ye looked bored out of yer mind!”

“I don’t fancy her anymore.” He whispered, drinking from his glass to prevent himself from saying more. Finding an opportunity to say her name. _Claire_.

“So, where have ye been looking all night?” Ian asked, sounding curious. Jamie couldn’t avoid the quick glance he threw in Claire’s general direction, which Ian promptly noticed. He glanced over his shoulder and sighed. “Oh, it’s _her_ again. For Christ’s sake _a charaid_ , when will ye get a handle on yer bollocks and finally gain courage to speak to the lass?”

“And say what?” Jamie questioned, irritated. “Hey, I’m Jamie Fraser, I know ye dinna even ken I exist but somehow I feel like I’ve known ye my whole life, even though we never trade a single word?” He shook his head. “That would be a great move!”

“Ach.” Ian made an impatient sound with his throat. “All this pining and longing – I’m beginning to think ye’ll overdose on Shakespeare lad. We are on the middle of a party, offer to pay her a drink and ask for a dance.”

“She has her hands full already.” They watched as Jimmy tried to place an eager hand on her waist and Claire swiftly slapped it off, hissing something between her teeth. Ian chuckled and Jamie growled.

The pub was incredibly crowded with Oxford students, looking to celebrate the end of a school year – drink to forget a grade less than brilliant; kiss a current crush to make a memory for the summer; and enjoy an endless stream of whiskey and ale with fellow companions. The music was loud enough, but only faint notes arrived at their ears, subdued by laughter and conversations.

“Mary and Sarah are coming this way.” Ian warned him, locating two blonde girls with cleavages that left very little to the imagination and matching red _fuck-me_ lipsticks. “And they look hell-bent on getting something from ye. Maybe ye should have worn a chastity belt?”

Jamie moaned.

“I canna deal with those lunatics right now. Maybe ye should take one for the team? Ye did promised my father ye’d be always on my side, guarding me.”

“I’m not sae sure that includes…hum… _dealing_ with your fans, _a charaid_. Besides, yer sister Jenny would skin me alive.”

Jamie noticed how Claire was talking to a friend and gesturing in what seemed like an attempt to say she was going to leave. She looked eerily beautiful in a white shirt and skinny blue jeans, her hair wild and untamed framing her pale skin. Her amber eyes shone even across the room, without any need of makeup to enhance them. Everything about her seemed natural and effortless – and yet she was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the room for him.

“I think I’ll just go home for the night. Got to be in shape for the game tomorrow.” He told Ian, squeezing his shoulder in a companion way. “Behave in my absence, sir.”

“Aye.” Ian gave him a knowing look, clearly stating _“You can try but ye canna fool me, lad.”_ “I’ll see ye in the dorm if ye get there.”

Jamie managed to get across the pub and reached the exit just in time to see Claire leave by herself. Well, at least he would make sure she reached the safety of her dorm without being disturbed. He placed his hands on the pockets of his jacket and slowly began to walk behind her.

They made their way across a couple of streets, Jamie always carefully keeping some distance, occasionally being greeted by colleagues and other students in different states of sobriety.

When they were reaching a darker street, the light of the distant lamp post freakishly glimmering, Claire suddenly halted.

“Why are you following me?” She asked aloud, without turning. “I can assure you, I have no interest in whatever indecent proposal you’re about to offer me. I already dealt with a douchebag tonight and my patience is running a little low.” Her tone was strong and confident.

“I wasna following ye.” Jamie answered. “Just making my way home.”

“Really?” She turned and faced him, her mouth a thin line. “Am I supposed to believe that?”

“Believe in whatever ye want.” He defended himself, crossing his arms. “I mean ye no harm.”

“You were watching me back there.” She tilted her chin, indicating the direction of the pub. “And now you’re following me across a dark alley. Forgive me if I’m a little concerned.” She noticed the surprised look on his face at the mention of his behaviour in the pub. “Will you deny it?”

“No.” He said slowly. “I was watching that bloody sod trying to grope ye and was worried for ye. So I followed ye to make sure ye got home safe, Claire.”

“You know my name?” She asked, clearly taken aback by it.

“Of course. Everyone kens Claire Beauchamp, medical school student, number one in her class.”

“Well, you have me at a disadvantage.” She looked down at him. “I have no clue about who you are.”

“I’m Jamie.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if I scared ye, but that was it. The streets are swarming with drunken wee fools tonight and if anything happened to ye…”

“I’m perfectly alright.” She wrinkled her nose. “As you saw back there I’m capable of handling an idiot. And I didn’t even get to use my pepper spray.” She smiled a little.

He laughed.

“I’ll definitely be more discrete the next time I follow ye into a dark corner.”

“So you should.” She placed her hands on her waist, her shoulders relaxing, giving him a straight glance. “And where did you park the horse, oh knight in shining armour?”

“He had a date over a plate of hay. My horse has a much more interesting love life than me, these days.” He replied playfully, reciprocating her stare.

They stayed in silence for a while, measuring each other.

“I lied.” She abruptly admitted, her cheeks painted with a slight pink. “I know who you are, _Jamie Fraser_.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “I would have to be blind, deaf _and_ stupid not to. Your name lives on the lips of almost every girl in this damned campus. The star and captain of Oxford’s rugby team. The Classical lit genius. The King of bloody Men.”

“Oh.” He blurted. “The King of _what_?”

She snorted.

“That’s what your admirers call you in the stands, swooning their hearts out. And the other boys probably call you a much less pleasant version of that out of spite, I expect.” She raised an eyebrow. “You really didn’t know that?”

“Nay.” He shrugged, moving his shoulders in a restless gesture. “So you’ve seen me play?”

“Yes, I’ve seen you out in the field.” Claire smiled, her hawk eyes warming. “I was there when you saved our asses against Cambridge. Couldn’t really face the idea of having to listen to them gloating again, after what happened in the regatta.”

“That was a bonny game.” He smiled. “I’m glad to know ye were there.”

“I was.” She distractedly played with the strap of her purse. “You are a true force of nature out there. But even though you looked amazing, that is not the time you look most like yourself.” She leaned against the wall behind her, her eyes avoiding his. “You look more like yourself when you’re sitting all sprawled in the chair, chewing on your pencil while you read Hamlet for what I bet it’s the millionth time. Or when you go out at dawn for a run when nobody will cheer and chant your name, just because you like how that feels. When you run for classes with your hair still wet and your shoelaces untied.” She swallowed. “And most of all when you sit by the window at night and look at the stars and you could be part of the darkness, except you’re everything but it.”

“Ye knew.” He said in a hoarse voice. “All this time, ye knew.”

“No.” She shook her head, her fingers grazing the cloud of her hair in nervousness. “I dared to hope for it sometimes. I…” Claire finally met his gaze. “I wished for it. But when you came after me tonight, the way you were looking at me in the pub when Jimmy touched me…I thought, perhaps, you truly did.”

“Yes.” He moved closer to her and touched her cheek, soft and warm under his fingers. She smelt of freshly squeezed lemons and soap. “I saw ye too. All that time, there was only ye.”

“I thought so many times of something to say to you.” Claire licked her lips. “Clever words, funny things, small talk. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But sometimes at night I knew you were there, across that space, and I could hear the song of your soul calling for me and wanted to leap to you.”

“ _Mo nighean donn_.” He whispered, framing her face with his hands. His lips brushed hers. Softly. Tentatively. Searing. “I’m in love with ye, Claire.”


	10. Columba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is a weird one. I hope someone enjoys its quirkiness!

**_Columba_ **

_“Esteemed Professor Eisel,_

_I hope this letter finds you in exceptional good health. I read with enthusiasm the papers you’ve sent me regarding hypnosis as a means to treat women with “man-sickness”, those poor souls afflicted by a deep despise of the touch of a man. I have the utmost faith that your work could cause a revolution and look forward to hearing your preliminary results in order to apply them here in St. Lucius’ Hospital._

_But the true motive that forces me to seek your help is the utmost necessity of counsel for one of my most challenging and, I must say, perplexing patients._

_Two years ago one young woman, née Claire Beauchamp, entered this institution brought by her loving and distraught fiancé, Mister Frank Randall, a distinct man of London and a University Professor himself. There are no points of contention in the woman’s family history that I’m aware of; her being from an impeccable family, pure in breeding with other decent and noble folks._

_The patient seemed to be fairing quite well until maybe six months afore her commitment; as a suitable young lady she was only preoccupied with the arrangements for her wedding to be. But according to Mister Randall’s description, Claire Beauchamp all of the sudden started exhibiting disturbing behaviour without any further prodromal symptoms – she slept very poorly at night and talked frequently of vivid dreams. She became obsessed with this idea that she must leave him and search for a man that she saw in her head. Supposedly, Miss Beauchamp was convinced that this imaginary man was her soulmate and that she was destined to find him – even that they had lived many lives together._

_Since her institutionalization here I’ve pursued every approach as per the state of the art – cold plunge baths, at times with a prolonged immersion; administration of laxatives and purgatives to rid her of any diseases of the bile or phlegm; sleep deprivation to heighten the senses and open the mind; long sessions of talking to help her deconstruct her ludicrous fantasy. It pains me to say none of these treatments were successful, as the patient remains adamant and unwilling to deny this man’s existence._

_I’ve been made aware of a new treatment in early testing stages, using electricity to induce seizures upon which the patient comes awake more enlightened and lucid - they call it “Electroshock Therapy”. I’m willing to try this new technique in this case, if I have your agreement._

_My best regards,_

_Professor Rawlings.”_

****

_“Calman geal.” He said, touching her cheek with his long fingers. She could feel them, hot and real against her skin. He smiled, part tenderness and part mischief, as his hand slid to reach her neck and then rummaged to caress her breast. He knew her; knew the desires of her body and touched her every aching point, as if he had been inside her all along. They shared something that needed no words to find its meaning. He lifted her, holding her legs around his waist and laid her down, gently. He whispered in a husky voice “Claire.””_

She came abruptly awake. For a moment she was disoriented, her mind adrift from the _cell_ that the nurses insisted to call _“room”._ This one had no windows – her latest punishment for misbehaving during therapy with Doctor Rawlings. If he insisted in prodding and commenting on her life and intimate thoughts, she saw no objections to asking him if he used the magnifying glass, which he had ornamentally displayed on his desk, to find his cock.

Claire turned on the bed, seeking a more comfortable position on the hard mattress. This dream was new; she knew her recurrent dreams all too well. Sometimes she had difficulty puzzling them in the different versions of herself she had identified by now; _he_ always seemed the same to her – strong-hearted, warrior even in times of peace, lover. _Husband_.

There were images that she thought belonged to distant times – in those she saw them in earthy tones, faded and muted. But some, like this one, were so present and immediate that were like images in technicolor. More than dreams, they seemed like recent memories – an old life she wasn’t prepared to let go.

The nurse knocked – the accurate term would be _hammered_ – on the door, warning her that it was time to escort her to the bathroom, where she would take a steaming shower, too hot for her taste but apparently good for her mental health; brush her teeth and have a chance to socialize with the other convicts – well, _patients_ – of St. Lucius. It would be a though choice though, choosing the company for the day with so many appealing options – the lovely Lauren, a young woman of her own age, who strangled her firstborn; the humorous Olivia, a paranoid schizophrenic who thought she was trying to kill her half the time; or the lively Mrs. Duffield, a catatonic middle-aged woman. Then she would suffer through two hours of pointless conversations with the director and then she would finally be left alone, to find freedom inside her own head.

When the dreams first started, she had been scared. Her life was following the path she had determined; her marriage to Frank, her sweetheart since her teenage years, would be the social event of the season in London. She truly thought she was content with the life she had envision for herself. Her first dream with him – _Jamie_ – had been very erotic and she had woken up soaked in sweat, a moan escaping from her lips as he thrusted inside her. She had attributed it to a harmless fantasy of a woman about to pledge herself to a sole man for the rest of her life.

But that first episode was like the drop that anticipated the flood, the dam of her mind finally broken. Soon their shared memories were the realest thing to her; the only thing. And finding Jamie had become her quest.

Frank believed she was just anxious, that a weekend in Cornwall would solve it. When that failed, a couple of weeks in Paris were the thing in order. He became increasingly desperate and frustrated as she slipped further and further away from him. Even though she deeply resented him for placing her in the asylum, she had to concede that he had tried to mend things to the best of his abilities. But no man accepts defeat easily, being passed over by another; much more so when his opponent seems only to be found inside her beloved’s heart.

Claire knew she could have spared herself from this degrading life; but that implied that she had to renounce Jamie, to say aloud that he wasn’t real. That she never loved him.  That she wouldn’t find him. And that was something she couldn’t begin to contemplate.

“Let’s go, Claire!” The nurse barked. “You’re expected in the shock therapy later, so move along!”

Oh, the electroshock therapy – their hail Mary to try and return her to the land of the sane. She had been frightened the first time, and in spite of the drugs that they administrated her she had suffered agonizing pain. But what they didn’t know was, that following that session, she had had the most vivid and long dream with Jamie; a tantalizing reminiscence of a wedding night.

She cackled, following the nurse that looked at her with profound alarm. She _was_ in a mental hospital, after all – might as well have a little fun.

****

Claire was sitting by the big window, where she could see the garden outside. It was her favourite place in the whole hospital; standing there she could pretend she was in the outside world, watching the season’s pass and life’s unending wheel. Here, she allowed herself to feel sometimes – the loneliness in which her beliefs had placed her; the flicker of doubt; the longing for him; the love she hadn’t experienced yet and that she already knew so well.

“Rupert sends his love, he couldn’t come this time.” She heard a male voice saying across the room. “But he wished me to say he loves ye verra much and he will try to take ye home for Hogmanay, aye?”

Her heart clenched inside her chest like a closed fist. She knew that voice better than her own - it had talked to her throughout the veils of space, time and sanity; she had waited to hear it for the past two years.

Afraid that she had actually lost her mind and had started to have hallucinations, she turned.

_Jamie._

Claire might have screamed; it was joy and pain and relief coming together over her. She had to go to him, but arms were around her now, trying to contain her and pull her to the hall. She resisted them, struggling more than she ever had before, even during her first days there, before she had realized the pointlessness of her efforts. Tears were streaming down her face, as she saw him walking across the room to her, his brow furrowed in concern.

“What is it, lass?” Jamie asked. “Ye called my name, didn’t ye?”

“Yes.” She sobbed, still fighting the nurse’s grip. “I need to talk to you. _Please_.”

His frown deepened, but he nodded. Jamie was looking at her with a strange mixture of fascination and fear.

“The lass isna doing anything wrong that I can see.” He gave the nurse at her right a hard long look. “She just wants to talk, that’s all. Let her go.”

He was an imposing man, as she already knew he was; and had an aura of authority and leadership around him - it took men much more confident than those nurses to resist the urge to obey him.

“Do ye ken me, lass?” He asked softly, after we sat together near the window, finally alone. “Have we met before?”

“Yes.” Claire answered softly. “I know all about you, Jamie.”

“Where did we meet?” He looked at her, serious, his blue eyes boring into hers. “I would recall meeting ye, I’m sure of it.”

“You really don’t remember me, do you?” She questioned, tears resuming their course down her cheeks. She had waited so long for him; never once had she thought he wouldn’t share her dreams. In her mind’s eye they always met and instantly recognized each other; their kisses were ardent; their hands fitted together effortlessly.

“No.” He said with remorse. “No, I don’t.”

“That’s alright.” She laughed amidst tears. “I’m just so glad to see you.”

Jamie smiled, giving her a puzzled look.

“Why are ye here?” He asked in a soft tone. “Ye dinna seem like someone that…should be here.”

“I’m here because I dream.” Claire said, looking at his hands. No wedding band in sight, at least. “It’s a dangerous thing these days, or so it seems.”

“What do ye dream about?” He questioned and seemed genuinely interested.

“A man.” She whispered, her fingers fidgeting with a fold of her grey and unflattering uniform. “A man I loved. Still do.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Are you…grieving then, lass? Is he dead and ye are here because yer heart is broken?”

“No.” Claire swallowed, avoiding his gaze. Although they were meeting at an asylum, she was adamant in wishing he didn’t think her crazy. “It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”

“It almost always is.” He smiled. “I’m here to see a friend’s mother. His wife is sick and he couldna come, so he wished me to make sure she was well taken care of.”

“That’s very kind of you.” She glanced in the old woman’s direction. It was Mrs. MacKenzie; she was one of the quiet ones. “I’ll try to keep an eye on her.”

“There is something familiar about ye.” Jamie said and she turned her head to find him studying her with intensity. “I can’t quite place it. It’s not even an image. More like…a feeling. Like…there’s something important about ye that I should remember.”

“Will you come and visit me? And bring me some poetry - perhaps Catullus?” Claire asked. She hoped he would remember; the seed had already been planted. She intended to water it and make it bloom; but if she couldn’t, then she must find a way to reconnect with him. He had loved her, time and time again – it was only reasonable to think he would again, in due time.

“Aye.” Jamie said softly. His fingers brushed her hand. “I think I’d like that, Claire.”

Claire could see the nurses approaching to tell them their time was up. She smiled at him and got up, starting to walk away to escape their claws.

“Funny you knew that. I didn’t even give you my name.”

He looked intrigued at her, but there was light in his features, like the moon half shining during an eclipse.

“And about the man in the dream?” He called.

“I’ll leave that to another time.” Claire winked. “I have to make sure you come back, don’t I?”

****

Claire breathed, waiting for Professor Rawlings to arrive at his office. She was due to another session; and for the first time she was actually eager to talk to him.

Jamie had finally come. He would remember her; she was already inside him, waiting for him to find her. For all the times he had waited for her to be ready, she would wait for him this time.

And now, finally free to become a lying sane person again, she needed to prepare for the rest of her life outside the asylum.

“How are you this afternoon, Miss Beauchamp?” Professor Rawlings greeted her sourly, upon entering his kingdom.

“Quite well, actually.” She gave him a sweet and innocent smile. “I’ve been thinking deeply and perhaps you were right about those dreams…”

 


	11. Phoenix

**_Phoenix_ **

_Brahms_ echoed furiously through the open doors as the orchestra launched itself in a rendition of _Hungarian Dance_. It started like a riot, a crescendo of frenetic instruments, that made his blood swirl faster inside his veins, eager to jump and dance in the chambers of his heart.

 Jamie adjusted his formal black tailcoats and checked his red hair – tamed by several minutes of strenuous work with brilliantine pomade. He wasn’t that used to it, usually allowing his hair to flow loose and tousled, hidden under his homburg hat when he went out for his daily chores. But the occasion demanded his very best evening attire, like a proper Edwardian gentleman, and Jamie was fairly confident he was looking dapper.

It was a birthday celebration for the daughter of the house, a wealthy heir of lands and titles in Oxfordshire – probably spoilt and coquettish, fishing for a suitable match since her _debutante_ ball at the mercy of the King.

Jamie had been travelling home to Scotland, coming from a season of profitable connections in Paris, when one his best friends, Lord John Grey – a nobleman himself from the finest breed – had asked him to spend a short amount of time at his country house, in order to help him with some complex business arrangement. He had later insisted that Jamie must accompany him to the function, dangling in front of his eyes the chance of introducing his whiskey to a couple of eager – and well-lined – pockets.

After the debauchery he had witnessed in the Parisian _cabarets_ , he wasn’t looking too forward to spending another night drinking, swallowing cigars and pretending to be interested in shallow conversations conducted by batting eyelashes or men comparing cock lengths.  

What he craved was the simplicity of the _moors_ and _lochs_ of the home of his heart, the painting of clouds and mist from his bedroom window – even if for a short period of time. Soon enough, he was meant to make the voyage across the great sea to New York, where he would make the acquaintance of some of the wealthiest railway tycoons, caskets rolling from Fraser’s distillery into prospering America.

Shrugging to ease off some tension, Jamie managed to summon a pleasant smile and entered the house. It was a riveting crowd – men gathered together in corners like wolfpacks, evaluating their prey; woman sipped from champagne flutes, tasting beverage and gossip alike; the orchestra played along dutifully, decided to give a concert even without listeners.

Jamie greeted a couple of acquaintances, briefly commenting on the excellent turnout of the evening and enchantments of the Beauchamp estate, and accepted a glass of rich Portuguese port offered by a doting footman.

After a laboured hour of confraternization, with a brief passage through the _baccarat_ table and multiple polite – or so he hoped – rejections of languid invitations to dance, Jamie was wondering if it would be the supreme abruptness to leave while the party was still at its prime.

Looking around to try to locate John – perched near the piano player, hypnotized in conversation with his _friend_ Hector – Jamie noticed her.

She was standing by the most secluded window, almost hidden by the heavy drapes of the red curtains, only noticeable because of the beckoning colour of her dress – a deep teal, that reminded him of Scottish skies in the summertime, right before the hour of falling stars. She had her back slightly turned, so he could only see her outline.

Her rich brown hair was styled in an elegant and simple knot, with solitary pearls scattered amongst her trapped locks, like drops of sea commanded by Poseidon to the most beautiful mermaid. Unlike other women – wearing flowers or jewelled pins and combs -  she had used a hair accessory that looked like a wee dagger to keep her hair in place – it reminded him so much of a _sgian dhu_ that Jamie almost gasped. She had a pair of simple silver earrings and no other jewellery that he could see.

Jamie moved discreetly, trying to approach her without being noticed. She was looking outside – her hands covered by satin black opera gloves, bracing the marble of the windowsill -, her lips pursed in seriousness, her eyes lost in contemplation of unseen things.

“Ye look bored out of yer mind.” He said in a conversational tone, before he could stop himself. She startled and looked around annoyed, noticing him – her eyes were the most astonishing shade of amber. “Sorry to disturb ye, Madam.”

“That’s alright.” She surveyed him, head to toe, taking him in. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Scotland.” Jamie confirmed, smiling. “My estate – Lallybroch - is near a village much smaller than the backyard of this manor.”

“It is an insufferably big house.” She shrugged. “You could easily get lost inside it.”

“Ah.” Jamie grinned, standing closer to her and peeking through the window to the obscured garden. “Do ye think that’s what happened to the fair lady being honoured tonight? People are commenting on her absence.”

The woman snorted, her lips quivering in amusement.

“I’m sure she’ll appear when she wants to.” She admonished. “I hear she has a wicked temper and rude manners. Not suitable to the title of Lady Beauchamp at all.”

“Hm.” Jamie offered her an appreciative gaze. “At least I’d be most entertained. And maybe ye wouldna look so wistful.” He added, softly.

“You do realize _I am_ Lady Claire Beauchamp, don’t you?” She asked, her eyes suddenly downcast, her lips contorting on a wry smile.

 “I do.” Jamie nodded, leaning against the wall next to the window. “I was guessing that was the reason why ye were hidden here.” And then he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “I’d be too, if I were ye.”

Claire gave him a significant look, raising her brows in a display of stupefaction.

“You look more like the type that should be spending the night next to the gaming table, plotting with the other men about the great determinations of Britain and choosing their next young lover.” She said ruefully.

“I was invited to leave the _baccarat_ table, I’m afraid.” He smiled, tilting his head in fake mourning.

“That bad of a player?” She crossed her arms in a very unladylike position, which made the corners of his mouth almost twitch in supressed amusement.

“Actually,” He confided with a grimace. “I think they were tired of me emptying their pockets. I’m verra good at cards – and dice.”

“So you are a gambler.” Claire gave him a lopsided smile, looking mildly interested. “And how did you find yourself here, Mister…?”

“Fraser. James Fraser” He slightly bowed down his head and kissed the back of her hand, feeling her warmth even underneath the satiny fabric. “ _Enchanté, Mademoiselle._ ”  

“French.” She commented, looking away to hide her face as a couple passed near them, giggling in search of a vacant room where to express their burning affections. “Do you have ties to France?”

“Very ancient connections.” Jamie admitted, noticing how the candlelight enhanced the honey inside her eyes, the fair skin of her neck turned almost golden. “I just arrived from Paris – made a small detour on my way to Scotland. I have to be in Southampton soon enough, though. I have a passage booked on the _RMS Titanic_ , bound to New York. I hear it’s a verra bonnie ship – a wee beast of the seas.”

“Oh.” She said, sounding strangely disappointed. “I see.”

They stood in silence for a while, their previous conversation interrupted by the announcement of his impending departure. The rooms were filled with the sounds of people gathering to dance a classic _gavotte_ , as the orchestra played on without signs of wavering, flooding the senses as the bodies pulsed with the spirits of alcohol and elation.

“I think I’ll get some air.” Claire finally said, tilting her chin. Her eyes were serious and hardened like crystalized amber. “It was lovely to meet you, Mister Fraser. Excuse me.”

Jamie nodded in retribution, bewildered, as Claire quickly escaped through a nearby open door. He leaned over the window, his eyesight adapting to the surrounding darkness, as he followed her silhouette with his eyes.

She walked with the familiar security of someone who knew the grounds well – a dog, honey coloured like her own eyes, ran from somewhere outside the house and barked to greet her. Claire immediately bent down to salute him, patting his flank with a gentle and caring hand. Her body moved with an easy grace, the promise of her flesh immediate and taunting like a whisper against the back of his neck, disarming him most irrevocably. She was an unusual woman, very different from the image he had created of the lady ruling the understairs servants with an iron fist. Nothing about her was what it should have been - and he had been enthralled with that realization the moment their eyes met.

There was a sadness about her – a peculiarity, like a book misplaced in the wrong shelf, and for that reason condemned not to be discovered. He knew nothing about what pleased her and made her laugh, but was sure it wasn’t the sycophants surrounding them or their many pompous titles.

He watched as she opened the metallic gate, headed to what seemed like a private garden, and without dwelling on it any longer, decided to follow her.

The air outside smelt of lilacs and roses, with a hint of rain to come. He rapidly approached the gate and saw her, sitting in a granite bench amongst a myriad of herbs and flowers.

In that moment, in her teal dress, she was all the lights in Paris gathered together; all the things the old masters had tried to paint, demonstrating beauty – she was the earth underneath his feet and the sky above his head, expanding away from him, limitless.

“You’re trespassing private property.” She announced in a soft voice, declaring her knowledge of his whereabouts.

“I’m a Scot.” Jamie smiled. “We are firm believers in the _right of way_.”   

“I thought you had to be going somewhere to call that.” Claire gave him a slightly smug smile, noticing his surprise.

“Who says I’m not?” He said in a hoarse voice, their eyes locking. Thankfully, the coming clouds still left the moon untouched – he could see her, her outline like a dream half-remembered, and sense the light shivers of her skin, exposed to the night’s breeze and to his unnerving presence. “Do ye want to dance? It’s yer birthday after all – seems unfair ye dinna even dance.”

“Dance?” She raised her brows, her eyes glowing. “We don’t have music.”

“Aye.” Jamie brushed his clean shaven chin with his fingers, in a pretence of deep thought. “We dinna have an orchestra here in the garden or a gramophone – amazing wee things, those – but I’d dance with ye anyway.”

She gave him an undecided look, stalling by brushing her skirt for inexistent leaves.

“In Paris I saw this dance – different from everything, really, brought on by Argentinians – it’s called _tango_.” Jamie licked his lips and offered her his hand. “I’ll show ye.”

Claire slowly took off her black gloves and reached out to touch his hand with hers – their fingers coming together with a disconcerting ease. Always looking into her eyes, steadying and reassuring her, Jamie brought their bodies to full contact and guided them in a few steps of the exotic dance, which soon would become the art of lovers, the rhythm of passion capable of shocking every matron and hostess.

“This is _interesting_.” Claire almost panted, as Jamie lightly squeezed her thin waist with his fingers. “You must have been in some extraordinary places in Paris, Jamie. Must have partnered with lots of girls there, leaving a trail of crushed hearts in your wake.”

“No.” He replied, his voice husky. “I didn’t understand it, then. What it takes to be able to dance like this – but now, perhaps, I finally do.”

“Jamie, I…” She gulped. “I have more money and lands than I can count. I have servants, jewels and dresses. But I haven’t been happy in a long time. You’ve talked to me like a person – not a godforsaken title – and for that alone I am grateful. But…”

“What?” He whispered, his fingers brushing her cheek, with heartbreaking tenderness and desire.

“Don’t dance with me unless you mean it.” Claire whispered back. “I know it’s too much to ask, but – please, don’t go to America. Stay here...” She ended softly, her unfinished sentence spiralling between their pressed bodies. _Stay here - with me_.

“I think I couldna leave even if I wanted to, Claire.” Jamie breathed, hugging her against him. It was still dark - and yet he was seeing explosions of light all around him, fast stars created by two souls meeting in the night, strangers on the verge of becoming one. “Ye have set my soul alight, _mo nighean donn_. I seem to be blind – but now I can see.”


	12. Draco

_**Draco** _

Witches all, to burn at the stake.

Amanda Byrne, drowned by an angry mob, didn’t transform into a bat and came flying over her house; but she was a beautiful young woman, with gentle eyes and gentler curves, so respectable men coveted her beyond boundaries of marriage and sense, bringing the wrath of scorned wives upon her. Alice Abbot never casted a spell to shrink a man’s cock, the very reason she was placed in the hangman’s noose; she was a clever girl and a sharp tongue to boot, so her betrothed’s member withered only by the force of her mocking words when he tried to force himself on her. Emma Chance didn’t produce a concoction to make women turn on their husbands, forgetting the roles of dutiful wives; she only wanted to learn how to read and know her figures and by that she burned to ash.

Neither of those girls had a grimoire under their beds; collected herbs in the precise phases of the moon to strengthen their power; prayed to the Mother – the womb of all life – instead of a God made of sin; touched their own bodies in pleasure in the depth of night, with visions of a faceless man; chanted ancient words to save a crop. None of them more of a witch than a common man.

In the New World nothing was truly new – the old ways, prejudices and superstitions had only found new ground to blossom upon, new opportunities for cruelty and patriarchy. Women were still deemed witches when they presented a mind of their own and dared to defy the law of a man’s word. Like a weed, an independent woman must be eradicated, before she could spread and contaminate all the garden.

Claire Beauchamp had been moving most of her life, her strangeness frequently unexplained by her foreignness. From the outskirts of London, to an attic in Edinburgh that felt like a furnace, in what would become known as Mary King’s Close, to a cottage near Florence, to an inn in Lisbon, Claire had started over; until there would come a point the word inevitably escaped from someone’s mouth, banishing her.  _Witch_.  _Sorceress. Defiler. Beelzebub’s harlot._   _Satan’s whore_.

Jumping from peril to peril she had found herself aboard a caravel, her destiny a settlement in America. In  _Saybrook Colony_  she had tried to become almost invisible during the first few months, assisting the local physician in his ministrations and overseeing the care of his house, to the best of her abilities. Almost every young woman, who had made the crossing with her, had found marriage by then, maids to become wives, but Claire had no wish to engross the list of earthly properties of any man.

The echoes of the witch trials at  _Salem_  still wandered the land, a tale of caution she daren’t ignore. That was until she had found herself amongst the crowd, witnessing the flames carrying Emma away.

Claire’s fists coiled, her lips moving silently in a litany, an old spell being summoned to take away the woman’s pain as fire licked her skin. Powerless to stop the madness, and knowing all too well she risked becoming her companion if she had raised any suspicions by defending her, the only thing left was granting Emma a painless death. That night Claire lit a candle and cursed the man who had made the accusation – he wouldn’t  _see_  his next name day. Not death, but blindness – the only suitable punishment for a  _blind fool_.

Julia Beauchamp, her mother and the only branch in a proper English family touched by magic, had explained her the responsibility of their powers. Nature always demanded a balance, a trade of sorts –  _something taken, something given_  -, she had told her. So, Claire paid the price of the day’s excessive use of power by kissing the index and middle fingers of her right hand – and when morning rose, she had forgotten entirely the colour of her father’s eyes, never to remember it again.

A new moon equalled a precious opportunity to gather herbs and plants near the river. Under the cover of darkness, it was less likely that someone – with a bit of imagination and a wicked mood – could spot her, triggering uncomfortable questions about her nocturnal activities.

One of the fundaments of practicing witchcraft with roots and herbs was that poison and cure are only separated by the amount of substance used. Some of the items lacking in Claire’s catalogue –  _mandrake_ ,  _aconitum_ ,  _belladonna_  - were seen as accomplished murder weapons – but she knew their uses to soothe pain, break a fever, efficiently purge someone who ate deadly berries, suffered from palpitations of the heart. She also needed  _lavender_  to make herself a dream pillow – since her sleep had been strangely disturbed for a fortnight -,  _dandelion_  and  _heliotrope_  for some divination tea and some  _black haw_  to brew as soon as she got home, as her belly cramped fiercely with her monthly.

A small basket dangling on her arm, her darkest cloak covering her from the night’s mist, a small curve knife to cut the most resistant stems, and Claire was on her way.

The air was fresh and fragrant near the river, as her feet crushed plants and branches, struggling a bit not to slide on the mud, absent of moonlight to guide her. The stars above twinkled – the constellation of the dragon clearly visible in the sky - as if winking at her, complicit with her night’s work.  _Honeysuckle_ , _hyssop_ , _lady’s mantle_ ,  _ferns_ and  _foxglove_  quickly found their way to her basket – slightly humming in content, Claire almost laughed in joy spotting a lonely plant, the small flowers dancing in blue in the night’s breeze –  _forget-me-nots_ , they were called - and she hadn’t seen one since leaving Europe.

Her fingers slightly brushed the petals, a silent apology for the life she was about to take from its rightful place, as she started to excavate the roots with her blade.

“Who’s there?” A low-pitched voice, undoubtedly male, demanded towards the river bank. “Reveal yourself!”

“ _Shit_!” She cursed, ducking to avoid detection. Claire promptly recognized the inquisitive voice - it seemed Father Bain fancied himself a walk before bedtime. She recalled with clearness the glow in his eyes, the pleasure felt as he watched a convicted witch burn, standing beside the Governor and the Magistrate to preside over the execution.

“Are you hiding from me?” He seethed, coming ever closer in her direction. Claire began crawling, searching for the shelter of the nearby bushes. “Only creatures of darkness seek to shelter themselves from the eyes of the righteous! Reveal yourself to the eyes of the Lord, I command you!”

“ _In your dreams_.” Claire whispered. There was no denying she had been alone collecting suspicious items, some of them with clear ties to sorcery – she knew it was enough to charge her in those times, fear epidemic. Being a relatively new settler, with no known family, no husband to speak for her, she would be dead before the following month arrived.

“I feel you,  _witch_.” Father Bain growled, slowly advancing towards her hiding place. “Your vapours of Hell, luring me to the swamp. I shall see you next to your sisters, at the gates of Hell.”

“ _Dinna move_.” A voice said close to her ear, making Claire startle and almost scream – but, fortunately, a hand had been ready to cover her mouth, blocking the sound. The man, smelling of something sharp and tangy, like metal, as well as smoke and ale, was barely visible amongst the shadows. “Do ye see that ash tree?” He asked in a murmur. Claire nodded against his hand, making her discontent evident by sniffing mightily through her nose. “ _Good_. Go there and hide. I’ll take care of the wee bastard.”

He let her go and rose to meet Father Bain – in the fraction before she crept to the tree line, Claire saw his outline bathed by the stars, recognizing the settlement’s blacksmith.

“Where are you?!” The priest roared, blindly looking around as he heard movement, his crucifix in hand. Claire rolled her eyes, wondering if he intended to smack someone in the head with it.

“Ach, ‘tis only me, Father.” The newly arrived man said somewhat gently, finally within Bain’s sight. “Didna mean to scare ye. Such a bonny night, is it not?”

“Mister Fraser.” The clergyman said, aghast. “What are you doing here, at such an ungodly hour?”

“Thought I might bathe on the river, Father. Dinna want to wound any lassies’ susceptibilities by doing so in broad daylight.” He shrugged, his voice sounding amused. “Thought ye’d approve of the notion.”

“A bath?” The priest sounded puzzled. “The harvest is a fortnight away still, Fraser. Surely it could wait.”

“I fancy doing it every week.” I could sense the laughter in his words. “Scots an’ all, aye?”

“I thought I’d heard something.” His grouchy eyes swept across the riverbank once again. “I was moved by prayer to come out at the witching hour – it’s a dark moon today and Satan’s creatures are restless on such nights.”

“I’ll be sure to say an extra Hail Mary afore bed, then.” James Fraser nodded. “Goodnight to ye, Father Bain.” The old man pursed his lips, displeased by the night’s outcome, but after a short hesitation turned his back and disappeared, heading towards the settlement.

“Ye can come out, now.” The blacksmith called out to her. Claire slowly walked to him, carrying her basket, half-hidden in the folds of her cloak. Even though she had seen him occasionally in the square, tirelessly working at his anvil, shaping swords and horseshoes with his hammer, or at the town’s council and mass, she had never truly noticed him. Clean of rust and sweat, he was extraordinarily attractive – his straight nose, high cheeks and broad shoulders made him look like a true warrior. A pair of magnificent blue eyes, gemstones containing all secrets of moonlight and stars, stared back at her.

“Thank you.” She offered, her voice hoarse as she attempted a hasty excuse. “I was just walking, taking a breath away from the smell of the settlement. But it wouldn’t look good for an unaccompanied woman to be out here, so I got scared and decided to hide.”

“I see.” He gave her a lopsided smile and, before Claire could stop him, his hand swiftly captured her basket. James Fraser calmly studied its content, raising a brow. “Mandrake.” He touched the brown root with the tip of his fingers, reciting softly. _“Thou must come in unto me; for surely I have hired thee with my son’s mandrakes. And he lay with her that night.”_

“ _Genesis.”_  Claire swallowed hard, giving him a tiny smile like a good catholic girl. Her eyes noticed his collar, the worn shirt revealing not only the hard tendons and muscles, but a dangerous silver crucifix peeking from it.

“An interesting harvest ye have here, Mistress.” He presented her with a serious look, even if there was still softness in the corners of his mouth. “I happen to ken most of these wee herbs and their uses – they would suit an apothecary… _or a witch’s cabinet_.”

Claire endured his gaze, straightening her back. Her heart pounded furiously inside her chest, knowing itself in danger – but he had deliberately chosen to protect her. She felt an overwhelming sense of trust towards him.

“Tell me, Claire Beauchamp – are ye a witch?” His voice was husky, but his eyes didn’t yield from hers.

“Yes.” She answered, before she could stop herself. “I am.”

Jamie nodded, not once, but twice – as if she had only confirmed an unshakable suspicion, something as natural as revealing  _“Yes, I am a maid.”_.

“Ye shouldn’t be out here.” He warned her, returning the basket to her hands. “Their thirst for blood is not yet quenched – they will continue their hunt and eventually they might find a lass who truly is a witch. Be careful.”

“Aren’t you going to report me, then?” Claire pressed him, bewildered. “I thought you were a man of faith.”

“I have faith in many things, lass.” Jamie smirked, looking away from her into the river, mindlessly running nearby. “Not only in God, but in good people too. I saw the look in yer eyes as they burned poor wee Emma Chance. The first one I ever saw at the stake who didna scream or trashed.” He looked at her again, his eyes all-knowing. “If ye had any part in it - ye did a good thing for her, Mistress.”

“Thank you.” She adjusted her cloak, feeling utterly discombobulated. “I’m in your debt, Mister Fraser.”

“I ken a rare woman when I see one.” Jamie turned his back and smiled at her above his shoulder. She recognized his silhouette draped in fragments of silver light from her restless dreams. “Ye might yet find occasion to repay me the kindness, once our paths meet again.”


End file.
